Men at Arms
by Jarhead Charon
Summary: A terrorist attack in Sicily introduces a foreigner to the world of Section 2, and their mailed fist - the Squaddra della Risposta Tattica.
1. Chapter 1 - Firing

Cohortes Urbanae Present

A Stygian Productions fan presentation

**Gunslinger Girl**

**- Men-At-Arms -**

* * *

><p>Based on and utilizing characters and situations created by YU AIDA.<p>

Original characters used with permission of their creators.

* * *

><p><strong>PART ONE<strong>

**Firing**

A pristine blue sky oversaw the sparkling waves of the ocean off the beach near Taormina's town center. In the air, one could hear overjoyed tourists laughing and playing, whilst a market near the piazza centro played host to numerous merchants hawking their wares, both agricultural and merely cultural, determined to gouge as much as possible, with both parties leaving with smiles on their faces.

It was against this idyllic summer backdrop that a young girl walked, wearing a sundress that complimented her shoulder-length chestnut hair, and carrying a violin case. Slightly ahead of her was a tall, dark-haired son of Tuscania, dressed in loose summer weight clothes of a fine cut, appropriate for a young heir catching some needed relaxation. Both were wearing sunglasses, the girl's looking somewhat out of place on her, as though she were borrowing someone else's attire. She paused for a second, hands clasping the violin case in front of her as she pondered something for a moment, before apparently coming to a resolution and skipping forward to catch up with the young man, who had kept walking forward along the warm sidewalk. Noticing that his companion was lagging, he turned to her. "Henrietta, is everything alright?"

Henrietta caught up with the man, and her face lit up with a dazzling smile as she responded with youthful exuberance. "Of course, Giuse! The sun is out, everyone's having a wonderful time, and I'm getting to spend today with you! How could everything _not_ be alright?" She threw her arms wide, her wrist effortlessly supporting the weight of her violin case as she spun gaily, giggling happily as she pondered the many things she was going to try and do with Giuse. While the fratello was ostensibly here on business, following up on intelligence about the presence of a mid-level Mafioso gaining strength in the region, Henrietta was never one to pass on the opportunity to spend leisure time with her beloved handler.

Looking around them, it seemed to be impossible that the intelligence that Special Operations, Section 1 had been receiving could be accurate... Taormina served little function other than as a historical tourist attraction. The views were spectacular, with Mt. Etna's majesty rising in the background, a streamer of steam visible today emerging from it's cone. In the other direction, the pale azure of the Ionian Sea reflecting the sunlight in dazzling ripples. It was almost beyond belief that smuggling operations that had resulted in large quantities of Semtex filtering to the various terrorist groups throughout Italy were being conducted here.

When Section 1 had processed the intel and fleshed out a potential target list, they had handed the data to Section 2, separating themselves from the "ghouls n' goblins," (as one rather odd analyst had termed the handlers and their fratelli). Ferro Milani had delegated the deployment to Jean Croce; this esteemed crusader against the Padania Republic Faction had deemed it to be beneath his interest level, and permitted his brother Giuseppe to take advantage of the location to sneak in a working vacation.

Which was how the Croce/Henrietta fratello came to be entering the Piazza Duomo, as much enjoying the tourist-filled crowd's ebb and flow as they were making notes of such points of interest as the local poliziotti scattered around the famous square. It was a well-known fact that local police in Sicily were as much in the pockets of the Mafiosi as their municipalities, so it paid to keep an eye on them when operating on the large island.

Henrietta looked past the one poliziotto in particular and saw a man smiling and laughing, looking at his wife attempting - and failing - to put a straw hat on their adorably-smiling daughter, who couldn't have been more than 6 years old. Her coffee-brown hair glinted in the sun as she shook her head back and forth, comically avoiding her mother's repeated attempts to cover her from the sun. Henrietta smiled warmly at the sight...

Then she ducked for cover, grabbing Giuseppe and pulling him behind a heavy stone planter. As he yelped in surprise, the explosion she had detected igniting on the side of the piazza washed overhead, spewing chunks of masonry in advance of a massive fireball.

Giuse stifled any further commentary, switching to his business mode as secondary explosions scattered shrapnel about the piazza, hurling tourists to the ground with terrified screams. Part of his mind noted 'these aren't timed... they're igniting with the flow of the crowd. Some sick bastard is watching this and detonating when the crowd runs to a certain point.'

Henrietta's trusty FN P90 was already in her hands from its case, her eyes scanning the crowd for threats. Her eyes locked on to the family she had been looking at before the explosions. The part of her that remained an innocent girl noted with horror that the man, whose face had been so happy moments ago was now contorted with agony that had nothing to do with the stumps of fingers missing from his left hand.

Instead, he was curled over two limp forms at his feet, as though trying to figure out which to try and revive first, and knowing that either would be futile. Henrietta's brief assessment told her that, and that same small part of her, separated from her dispassionate "business mode" wept for the little girl who had been giggling less than a minute ago, and who would never giggle again.

As she began scanning again, she noted out of the corner of her eye that the man shook his head, and reached over to the fallen body of the poliziotto, and retrieved his Beretta 92 from his holster, and the two magazines from pouches on his belt.

"Giuse! The man there has a pistol - he just took it from the officer's body!" Henrietta relayed her findings to her handler, trying to keep as much of the piazza in view whilst still keeping this unknown quantity in view.

"Is he a threat, or a cowboy?" Giuse asked, trusting Henrietta to keep the stranger in view while he looked for a possible vantage point for the bomber to be observing the carnage. A nearby church steeple was looking promising...

After watching the stranger's actions for a moment, Henrietta responded "He looks like he's looking for something... I think he's trying to help us!"

Giuse groaned. The last thing he needed was some random factor to foul up an already bad situation. "Leave him be, for now. I need you to head over to that church bell tower... I think our bomber's there, but even if he's not, the height will let you observe better."

"Okay." With a definite course of action directed by her handler, Henrietta's face hardened even further, her eyes narrowed, and she sprinted across the square, juking back and forth between pieces of cover as she advanced on the tower. A flurry of explosions ahead of her path indicated that she was probably moving in the right direction, but she wasn't going to get there just yet.

Giuse squinted at the tower, the sun having started descending in the sky, placing the church in sharp silhouette. He heard movement next to him, and noted that the stranger was next to him behind the tall planter. Giuse got his first solid look at the man, and noted that in addition to two fingers on his left hand being pulped flesh, his upper body was peppered with chunks of masonry, and his face had a truly horrific slice running from his chin, alongside his right eye, which was squinting, up to his temple.

The man spoke, his voice ragged, with a distinct American accent. "Sir, I see the tower. The man up there... uh... bomb... ah..." his frustration was evident as he struggled with his lack of control of Italian. Giuse nodded, and spoke in lightly-accented English.

["Yes, signore, the bomber is in the tower. I don't know if there is another."] He decided to humor the man for a moment. ["Have you seen anyone else?"]

The man's face, a mask of pain, hardened for a moment. ["Signore, I see no-one else right now... but you're right."] The stranger scanned the piazza for a moment, before stopping his search at a nearby alley. "Two men!" he snapped in Italian. "Left, moving!"

"Henrietta! To your left!" Giuse shouted. Henrietta snapped her head and weapon to that angle, spotted one emerging from cover, and ripped off a 5-round burst that took him in his legs and lower torso. The man, dressed in casual clothes, dropped screaming. He was silenced by a single round from the stranger's tactically-acquired Beretta, the 9mm hollowpoint being quite sufficient to splatter his brains across the ground.

The second target reacted by hurling himself behind another planter, firing a quick volley of shots from his weapon, a small submachinegun that Giuse's mind absently noted as sounding like a 9mm. The shots spattered around the stranger's location, who hunched lower behind the planter. Giuse waited for the burst to stop, the leaned around, spotted the target, and snapped off several shots with his Five-seveN. Two struck cleanly, apparently shattering the target's shoulder and causing him to drop his SMG. When he fell, clutching at the disabled limb, Henrietta dispatched him with a perfunctory double-tap in between his squinting eyes and his screaming mouth.

After ensuring that no other foot-mobile threats were in the piazza, Giuse looked up at the bell-tower. Henrietta, after completing her own scan, did the same. Giuse's ersatz brother-in-arms lay, leaning up against the shredded planter, grimacing as adrenaline processed out of his system, and the pain of his injuries became that much more apparent to him.

Henrietta's head snapped to the right. "Giuse! One man fleeing from the tower! White male, green shirt, tan pants, with a backpack!" She raised her P90 to her shoulder, and added in a calmer voice "Armed with a pistol."

"Shoot to wound only!" Giuse ordered. "We need him alive!" Henrietta responded with an affirmative noise, and stitched the ground around the subject's pumping legs. Three... six... twelve rounds, and down he tumbled, limbs flailing like a wasp hit with bug spray, his voice wailing and warbling in a language that Giuse didn't immediately recognize; it wasn't Italian or English in origin was all he could determine. But there was something that was almost familiar...

"Well done, Henrietta," Giuse praised, his eyes fixed on the target. Henrietta glowed with the praise, her attention slipping for a moment before she resumed following Giuse's lead, her face hardening as she ensured her P90 had a fresh magazine. The fratello approached the subject, who had given up his plaintive cries and had begun attempting to drag himself away from the carnage left in his wake.

As the pair's attention was appropriately focused, neither was paying over-much attention to the area they had already cleared - until a single sharp report silenced the groans of their subject and dropping him to the ground. Henrietta whipped around, training her SMG on the cowboy, who half-stood, leaning against a savaged tree for a firing support, his now-empty Beretta held in his hand before him. A look of intense satisfaction suffused his features, before he slumped against the tree completely and slipped to the ground, unconscious.

* * *

><p>Jean was livid. Hilshire could tell - his face was carefully composed and not showing any emotion outside of the clenched jaw. His words came crisp and concise. "Hilshire, ask the cowboy just what he thought he was doing, getting involved with the incident? His actions put the CroceHenrietta fratello at risk, to say nothing of terminating all the participants! We can't interrogate dead men, and none of the bodies had usable intel on them!"

Hilshire turned to the white-faced man who sat, slumped over, against the clean-up crew's van at the disembarkation point. His left hand and cheek were bandaged, with some seepage through the white gauze. In his German-accented English, he relayed Jean's words, filtered so as to avoid revealing anything about the SWA's full scope of operations.

Dull gunmetal eyes looked back up at Hilshire, and with a sinking feeling, he recognized the emotions behind it. Or rather, the lack of emotion. It was the same look he'd had when he realized exactly what had happened to Triela after Rachelle had given up the last of her life saving a girl she didn't know. ["You can tell that filio di putana,"] began the man, baritone voice husky, ["that all I did was kill the bastards who took my wife and child from me. If that stronso has a problem with vengeance, he's going to be upset. I'm not done yet."] He took a shuddering breath, but held his eyes up.

Some of Hilshire's wry amusement must have shown on his normally impassive face, because pale became mottled red immediately. ["And just what, pray tell, is so god-damned funny?"]

Hilshire waved a gloved hand in a conciliatory motion. ["My friend, if there is anything that the gentleman over there understands, it's revenge."]

Turning to Jean, Hilshire relayed the - again, edited - rebuttal from the stranger. The blond government agent sat for a moment, pondering. Finally, he started asking questions, the man answering monosyllabically. Hilshire recognized with a start that he had answered several of the same questions a few years ago, after he had gotten past the concept that the girl who would become Triela had been remade.

If the man realized that he was being given a job interview, he showed no signs of it, as he told about his time with the United States Marine Corps, then later as a police officer. When he was done, Jean sat, pondering for several moments. Then he pulled out his cell phone, pressed a single number, and after a few seconds began speaking softly in clipped sentences. Hilshire ventured to guess that it was Chief Lorenzo on the other end of the conversation.

His time with both the Polizei and Interpol had taught him the fine art of listening to conversations whilst looking to be uninterested. Straining his ears, he could pick up part of what Jean was saying. "No... not as a handler, I agree... Tactical response team? ... Possible, but he would need to be accepted by them... Very well, sir." Hilshire composed his face as Jean turned to him, giving a single curt nod and walking away towards his Mercedes. Hilshire groaned inwardly: this poor bastard had no idea what he was signing himself up for. He motioned for Triela, who came forwards with her shotgun slung, muzzle down over her shoulder. She looked quizzically at the man, then back to Hilshire, who returned her look with a slight crinkling at the corner of his eyes - the merest hint of a smile showing in his demeanor.

Triela relaxed as slightly as Hilshire had smiled, enough to allow herself to examine the stranger more closely. He was tall - not in the same manner as most were to her, but with the telling signs of having received a well-provided upbringing, replete with many nutritious meals. The frame under the shredded clothing suggested bulk without excess, neither in fat nor in muscle. The eyes above the bandages were a gunmetal gray-blue, dull and lifeless at the moment as he sat, lost in his grief. The stomach suggested that his body was perhaps going prematurely to seed, but was not yet lost to the ravages of the typical American overindulgence.

Triela cleared her throat sharply, and the man looked up dully. ["Sir?"] Inwardly, she winced. She _hated_ the way her voice sounded in English - half-Italian, half... something else, also fluid and musical like Italian, but with a harsher edge. ["My name is Triela. Please, come with me?"]

His face remained unresponsive. Triela knew she was speaking correctly; he just wasn't hearing her. She thought for a moment. Hilshire wanted her to take him to the transport van to head back to the SWA -that much she had read in her handler's demeanor. Using her initiative, she surmised that it would probably not be in her best interests to put in him the transport van unconscious, so that ruled out a whole host of options that she felt more comfortable employing.

Instead, she tried another tack. ["You want to help us kill terrorists?"] This provoked an immediate response, as the stranger's eyes snapped into clear focus, centering directly on her own. She felt an almost palpable arc leap from his gaze to her, and stifled the urge to gasp at it's intensity.

"Yes, signorina," responded the man in an icy tone, "I would like very much to kill terrorists. I go with you, I can?" At her relieved nod, the man stood. "Bene... molte bene. I come with you now."

Despite his stilted, accented Italian, Triela could get the sense of exactly how much this man wanted this opportunity. With a start, she realized that the look in his eyes looked very similar to that often seen in Jean Croce's. As she thought about that, she shivered as she walked the man to the nondescript grey van. 'There's two of them,' she thought, suppressing a shiver as she opened the vehicle's sliding side door. The man wordlessly entered and sat in the rear seat. As she waited for Hilshire to collect her so they could leave. She turned to the man and asked him what his name was.

He sat quietly for a moment. Then, oddly enough, he chuckled. It was a fractured sound, devoid of mirth, but with a fair share of warmth. It reminded Triela of Hilshire's occasional musings on the nature of those around them, or whenever he'd make an observation on a co-worker when there was a joke to be had, but the joke wasn't funny. "Call me... John Darme," he said. Then he leaned his head against the window and said nothing else. Triela raised one slender blond eyebrow, but did not press the issue.

* * *

><p>After a tense ride in the van to the local branch office in Catania, John was escorted by Triela and Hilshire away from where Jean was heading, instead being seated in an interrogation room. John looked around for the camera as his escort left, found it just above the closing door, in the corner. Having taken care of the preliminaries, sizing up the room, John sat back in the provided chair, noting idly that it was remarkably comfortable for being in an interrogation room.<p>

As he sat back, the events of the last few hours began to flood his mind. 'Not here... not now,' he told himself sternly. 'Later. There will be time later, when THEY aren't watching.' Ignoring the prickling in his eyes, the slight blurring in his vision, and the thick lump in his throat, John forced his breathing to steady.

On the other side of the two-way mirror, Hilshire and Triela sat, watching. Triela looked scornful. "Awful cold for a man who just lost his wife and daughter. You'd think he could at least shed a tear."

Hilshire shook his head slightly. "It's not that simple. He doesn't know who we are or everything that's going on. I don't know if he saw everything that happened in the piazza, but we can assume that he saw Henrietta in action. So he's got a lot of stuff on his mind. From what Giuse and Henrietta reported, he knew what he was doing handling a weapon, so that would support his assertion that he was in law enforcement and/or the military. It looks to me like he's got himself in some sort of 'business-mode,' much like how you cyborgs are when on-mission." Hilshire paused to reflect, noting the tension in John's shoulders. "He's not cold, he's just focused. At least," he amended, facing Triela again, "that's my read on it."

Triela looked at the tall American, face thoughtful. "I can see how you get that... the question is, why hasn't Jean just sent him on his merry way? Why are we sitting here, babysitting a potential security leak?"

"Because," said Jean as he opened the door to the observation room, "right now, I can use him." He finished coming in, and closed the door with the coffee-colored leather briefcase that he was carrying in his left hand. "He's seen a cyborg in action, which means he already knows too much. The only options I have at this point are to tie up the loose end, or to bring him in. He's shown weapons-handling skills, however much the manner he displayed them may infuriate me. And, most importantly, right now he wants to kill whoever killed his family. Which may or may not be Padania at this point; either way, his desires mesh well with the SWA's goals. And so long as we can keep him pointed down-range, I can use him."

Hilshire raised an eyebrow at Jean's cold, matter-of-fact assessment of the situation. "But would we just hand him a cyborg? Without any kind of background check?"

Jean snorted. "Please, give me some credit for operational security. And even if the SWA had a cyborg ready for a handler - which we don't, right now - I don't think this... 'cowboy' would be a good choice. However, as it happens, the SRT has an opening. Providing that his background check through the Americans shows no major discrepancies... we can have this one fighting for us with a minimum of trouble."

"Providing, of course, that the SRT accepts him," Hilshire noted cautiously. "Most of them have been together since the beginning. It's only recently that they've had a... vacancy. They may not appreciate an outsider being foisted on them."

Jean smiled humorlessly. "Leave that to me." With that, he turned and exited the observation room, entering the interrogation room.

John looked up as the door opened, and saw the blond who had spoken with him earlier. He noted the lack of expression on his face, which served to back up his initial impression that here was a very cool fish. He wasn't sure that he liked this man very much, but he had gathered enough information to know that if he wasn't the boss, he was at least the highest one on the totem pole for this strange group of operatives. What was left of John's quiet side continued trying to work out who these folks were, even as Cold Fish began speaking. The young lady who had called herself Triela walked in behind Cold Fish and began translating. The tall one with the glowering face stood just outside the room, looking Teutonic and imposing. John ignored him, and focused on what Triela was saying.

["Signore Croce says that our group is willing to work with you, based on what you said earlier. He says that if you accept our offer, you will be given a chance to back up your words about getting revenge on those responsible for today."]

John's eyes narrowed. 'Dammit, not NOW!' He cleared his throat, but his voice remained thick and husky. ["I don't even know who 'We' are, miss. If 'We' can help me, then I might want to work with 'We,' but I need information, first."]

Triela spoke in brisk Italian back to Croce, whose eyes hardened. John really didn't care, at this point. Either he was going to get a chance for revenge, or he was dead. Either way, he had a feeling that Croce had already made up his mind what he was going to do.

Still, he couldn't help but jerk slightly when Croce lifted his briefcase suddenly, placing it on the table, edge towards him. John didn't SEE anything that looked like a barrel, but still... He relaxed slightly when Croce placed the case flat, then popped the latches, opening it and extracting a dark brown folder that practically screamed "OFFICIAL." John noted idly that it must be a government thing; his Marine Corps Service Record Book had been the exact same shade.

Croce placed the folder in front of John. In the top center was the Italian Coat of Arms, in black; below which was an insignia that he didn't recognize. The text below read "Agenzia di Benessare Sociale Sezione 2." He raised an eyebrow. 'Social Welfare Agency? Aren't they the ones with all the wonderful international medical treatments? Saving kids who are beyond help?'

Croce was still looking at him as he turned his gaze upwards. John wasn't sure, but he thought he detected a hint of satisfaction in his otherwise expressionless gaze. Looking him in the eyes, John asked simply "If I working with you, I can kill these bastards?" Croce nodded - that was DEFINITELY satisfaction. "And if no I say?" Croce's face hardened, as did Triela's. John suddenly noticed that Triela's rather sharp waistcoat had a bulge at the small of her back, and wondered if he might have pushed it too far.

Croce spoke slowly, deliberately, making sure that John's limited Italian could get his meaning. "We hope you will say yes," he stated simply.

John nodded slightly. "Capito. E vero, ho capito."

* * *

><p>Once he got to the hotel room, with the admonishment that he needed to stay in there for the rest of the night, John finally allowed his walls to come down. At this point, he didn't care if there were bugs planted and an entire team dedicated to watching him for the evening - grief can only be delayed for so long before the levees holding it back must be demolished. Withdrawing his wallet, John flipped open a section of clear plastic, his gunmetal eyes scanned the photographs contained therein, before they became obscured as the tears welled. A single, raw sob bypassed his lips, and with his pain now vocalized, everything burst forth.<p>

After a period of time that felt like hours, but his hotel room clock impossibly only registered as 45 minutes, the tears stopped, leaving crimson-ringed eyes dry and abraded in their wake. The sobs receded, replaced by raw lungs and throat, and sore abdominals. The pain... remained, but had been covered by something that managed to dull it to the point where it wasn't stabbing into his soul.

A wry chuckle, incongruous in the suddenly-silent room, erupted at the thought. 'Now's not the time to be waxing melodramatic,' John thought. With his initial mourning passed, he was able to function. Stifling a sniffle that made him irritatedly harken back to childhood, John pulled out what he had initially identified as a "new-hire" packet for this "Section 2." Knowing his Italian reading skills were barely passable, and filled with comprehension errors, he approached this task with some trepidation, before noting with surprise that what he was beginning to read actually continued in English.

'A bilingual government agency? Am I in Canada?' He cocked one thick eyebrow before continuing to read. As he continued, successive paragraphs in the introduction indicated that due to a large number of "professionals" (their term) being hired to the Social Welfare Agency ("Henceforth referred to as the SWA"), for ease of translation an English version of the literature was provided by the SWA. "However," the packet admonished sternly in bureaucratese, "all personnel MUST demonstrate proficiency in tactical Italian before being permitted to enter an Active Duty status." John nodded his head at the common sense there, which helped to start resolving his questions as to why he was even being considered for this, given his limited language ability. Obviously, this was something that had been dealt with before.

For the next hour he slogged through the literature, being without anything else to do other than brave Italian television. Occasionally, he would have to set the papers down for a moment, close his eyes, and retreat into memory for a few minutes, before he would be able to continue on. 'It's all part of the mission,' he started telling himself. 'I can work through this - I've done it before, I can do it again. This is all part of the mission: getting back at those rotten sons-of-bitches.'

Before he could finish reading everything, there was a knock at his door. Snapping out of his latest reverie, John raised his oddly fatigued body from the bed and stepped to the door. Standing to the hinge side, he leaned over and peered through the peephole. The - normally quiet - paranoid part of his mind began yammering in his ear, urging caution. "Who is there?" he said, grimacing at the ragged tone to his voice.

"Baggage service, sir," came the cheery reply from the individual on the other side of the door, who was sporting a shoulder-length haircut over a "dressy-casual" outfit of polo shirt and slacks, topped with some expensive-looking sunglasses. He had, sitting behind him, what appeared to be John's suitcase, left at his hotel in Taormina.

John's eyes narrowed. "Leave it," he said, voice changing to a gruffer tenor. He scanned his room rapidly for something he could use as a weapon, seeing only the desk chair as a remote possibility, and cursing his lack of situational awareness.

"Oh, no sir! The _Agency_ requires me to give it to you personally!" The voice remained cheerful, but there was a definite accentuation of the "Agenzia."

Catching on, John said "Do you have a... erm... work badge? Name badge? [Filio di putana, what's the word...?"]

["Si signor, I have an ID card,"] said the man, a note of satisfaction entering into his lightly-accented English, and he produced a folding wallet-type badge holder, which opened to show a simple picture ID, with holographic seal, showing his name to be Amadeo Rossi, employee of the SWA, Section 2. He then flipped the fold back, showing a plain white plasticard ID, with a badly-printed photo of the same man, IDing him as Massamiliano Bossi, of the Agenzia per Bagaglio di Hotel. John raised an eyebrow, then chuckled slightly. Just the thing that a low-budget, fly-by-night company would provide in order to give their people an air of "legitimacy."

"Okay then," John said, opening the door slowly, taking in his unexpected guest. "Come in. It is very dangerous for tourists, yes?"

"Yes sir," said Amadeo/Massmiliano, lugging the small suitcase into the hotel room. John looked expectantly into the hall, but did not see any other bags.

["Where is the rest?"] he asked, closing the door. Amadeo dropped the suitcase on the bed, rolling his shoulders back and rocking his neck back and forth, cracking vertebrae.

["In storage. You do not need to worry about it for now."] He pointedly ignored John's hardening expression, and continued on. ["Per Director Croce, you should be reading your handbook for now. I see that you've already started."]

John pushed aside his initial irritation. 'Focus on the mission,' he reminded himself. "Your English is very good," he essayed.

Amadeo gave a small smile. "And your Italian is not bad, for a beginner. You also speak with a slight Sicilian accent...?" He left the question hanging in the air.

["I was once stationed at Sigonella, for a short time,"] John answered, after trying and failing to respond with the proper Italian. This was going to be more than a little frustrating.

["Military?"] asked Amadeo, sizing up the taller man with a more studied eye. Certainly, anyone could wear a military-style buzz-cut, though few did, even in the military...

["Marine Corps,"] John answered, face unable to restrain a prideful smirk. "Like the San Marcos?" he tried, then immediately regretted it at the hardening of Amadeo's face. 'Whoops... what did I say?' he thought.

"The San Marcos Regiment is... not... the same as your American Marines," Amadeo replied hotly. "We have a history going back hundreds of years, before America was anything more than a colony! To compare the two..."

John held up a conciliatory hand. ["Hey hey hey! I meant no offense... it's just that I've worked with San Marcos before and..."]

Amadeo sniffed slightly, before coughing into his hand. ["It is... fine. In any case, we are with the Agenzia now. It is a different time, a different group. The mission is more... specific."] His face hardened. ["What do you know of terrorists?"]

John raised an eyebrow. "I am an American. After September 11th, you ask me this question?" Even in the - admittedly decreasingly - unfamiliar Italian, the cynicism dripped off of every word.

Amadeo shook his head. ["I do not mean your Arabic enemies, although it is good that you recognize that not everyone in a war wears a uniform."] He sat at the desk, kicking his heels up on the corner. John noted that at the small of his back, revealed by his untucked polo shirt hanging at a different angle, was the hilt of a sheathed knife of impressive size. ["I mean people like Ireland's IRA, like Italy's own Red Faction... like Padania."] This last came out with a dark, guttural spitting of consonants. Whoever Amadeo was, it was evident that he held no love for someone who John only vaguely knew as a political faction.

He could only shake his head, then attempt to put this new information in a context he recognized. "You call Padania like IRA... they are the same?"

Amadeo's mouth twisted slightly, and he wobbled a hand back and forth. "Almost... Padania is not like a military, like the IRA tried to be. They think that North Italy should be separate from the South. It is about money..."

"What isn't?" quipped John without thinking. The two shared a dry chuckle, the earlier brittleness starting to erode as John's place in the grand scheme began to be outlined. As the conversation went on, John was able to get a more concrete idea of just how bad the Padania were making things for the Italian government. He also noted that the more Amadeo talked, the less he spoke in his excellent English, and the more Italian, which became easier for him to follow, albeit with occasional pauses for a translation of an unfamiliar term.

"So now, we come to us, the Agency. The government already had the medical teams doing the research for the prosthetics - the... artificial arms, legs and organs," he amended at John's quizzical look, before continuing. "From there, it was not so long before they began looking at making complete cyborgs. At first, they used adults. They were... not successful." Amadeo winced. "I was hired about that time. I saw the results of the first experiments. It was... not pleasant."

Something chirped in Amadeo's pocket, and he blinked. "Ah, excuse me! I forgot..." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a flip cellphone, pressing a single button on the keypad. After a moment, John heard a chipper-sounding female voice through the speaker. "Tourism Promotions Agency, Rome Branch: how may I direct your call?"

Amadeo's voice became smoother, and he winked at John as he spoke. "My beautiful Fallen Angel of Love, it is I, your fellow Agent of Love, checking in with our newest friend and reporting all is well."

John wasn't quite sure how to spell everything that came out of the speaker, but it reinforced his opinion that Italian was a FANTASTIC language to chew someone out in. Whoever this "Fallen Angel of Love" was, she had a commanding ability with some of the saltier aspects of Italian rhetoric.

"I mean, seriously, Director Croce could have been behind me," finished the Fallen Angel. Amadeo had the courtesy to at least look abashed.

"You're right, Priscilla." His face became serious for a moment. "In any case, both I and the new guy are fine. I will be enroute to the field office shortly, once I finish briefing him." He hung up the phone, giving John a small shrug and a 'What can you do?' expression. John cocked an eyebrow. Amadeo chuckled ruefully. "Italian women are... not shy about telling you when they think you are being foolish. That was Priscilla, one of our Intelligence analysts. She has been with the Agency longer than I have. There were about 10 of us at the beginning, doctors, operators, drivers, and agents. It was small, underfunded... but cozy. Then we got our first successful cyborg. Angelica." His eyes grew distant, and John thought he detected a slight mistiness to them. Amadeo shifted in his seat. "Angelica was... special. With her, we learned what we needed to do to make the cyborg program work. She taught us a lot... and not just about the program."

"Was she... like that other?" asked John, matter-of-factly. "Was she a child?"

Amadeo nodded. "I told you that we tried adults first? When that... failed, the doctors started checking their notes and figures, trying to see what went wrong. At about that time, they got a call about a young girl who had been very badly hurt by her father... the bastard tried to kill her for insurance money." Amadeo's face hardened as he spat out the last, and John felt his own do the same. Never pleasant to be reminded of how low some could go. He couldn't even DREAM of doing that to his... 'Dammit, not AGAIN... not NOW. Mission, mission, mission...'

Amadeo coughed into his hand, then continued. "Almost at the last minute, they began to work on this girl, who was not supposed to survive this accident. Everything was wrong with her, both inside and out. The doctors... fixed her. Replaced what was broken with prosthetics - you remember this word? - and gave her special medicine to help her mind adjust to her new body. It was a long process, but once we saw that everything was working with the first operations, it was decided to try and go the full route with the cyborg plan."

John's face fell as he saw where this was going. "So... the Agency uses these children as... agents?"

Amadeo shook his head sadly. "The agency takes those who are basically dead... and gives them a new purpose. These girls have all, without exception, been at the end of their lives, in one form or another. The Social Welfare Agency has given them a new body, a new set of skills, and a new purpose. Not one of them has regretted it."

John sat there in silence, his mind churning. Then he spoke, his voice husky. "Where do I fit in? Am I to work with one of these... children?"

Amadeo shook his head. "No... the Agency does not have a cyborg for you. However... it is not just cyborgs in Section 2. There is also the Squaddra della Risposta Tattica - the SRT - a tactical response team that comes in when an operation is larger, when a couple fratelli aren't enough."

"Fratelli?" asked John, starting to see the picture. "Cyborgs and their handlers are called fratello," explained Amadeo. "Because they look out for each other like siblings. Get it?" John nodded. "When their velvet glove isn't enough, the SWA puts on a fist of mail. That's us. We train with special weapons and tactics and practice knocking the shit out of the Padania and any others who stand in our way. We are the heavy hand, the big guns."

He stood, stretching. "And we want you to be one of us. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, you come to Rome. Once your security paperwork clears, you'll be training with us." He walked to the door, opened it slightly, then paused and turned back to face John. "Welcome to the SRT, marine." Then he walked out, leaving John sitting on the bed, at a loss for words.

* * *

><p>A night's fitful rest left John bleary-eyed and fumbling for the coffee pot at the wee hours of the morning. His arms would occasionally seek out another form, his sleep-and-medication befuddled mind would attempt to sort out everything that had happened in the last 24 hours, and the force of everything would hit him across the shoulders like a 2x4. After breaking down each time, he would eventually drop to sleep again, to repeat the cycle over and over.<p>

Finally, he gave up on the possibility of getting any rest, and resigned himself to fighting his demons. He knew that time would dull the grief's harsh edge, and he longed for the pain to start receding. In the meantime, he fortified himself with caffeine, and studied his face in the bathroom mirror.

After blinking groggily at his reflection a few times, he essayed a half-smile. ["Mon ami, you look like crap."] Between the gauze pad on his cheek, with a few rusty dots indicating it was due for a change, his bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes and sallow complexion, John had to admit that he'd looked better. "What better way to go to a job orientation?"

He left the coffee pot on the hotplate to "distill" while he took a shower, doing his best afterwards to apply ointment over his still-painful stitches and re-cover them with fresh gauze. This was exacerbated by his awkward left hand, itself still red and raw around the sutured remains of his ring and little fingers.

He glanced at the stub of his ring finger, focusing on the band of skin at it's base that remained paler than the surrounding flesh, even accounting for the redness remaining after the medics had taken care of him. His other hand reached for an envelope that had been included in his luggage, an envelope that jingled as he picked it up and dumped it's contents on the counter next to the sink. Three bands, two gold and slender, one dull grey-silver and much larger tumbled out. His mind past the point of expressing itself, he dully picked them up, his earlier jocularity completely dismissed. Reaching for his neck, he removed the fine beaded chain that was draped there, the tinny clacking of the tags at the end of it sounding like a hollow, mirthless laugh.

Unclasping the chain, John dropped the three rings onto the chain, refastening it and placing it back around his neck. His right hand clasped around the impromptu pendants for a second, before he shook his head, hardened his expression, and resumed his preparations for the day.

After ensuring that his face retained no stubble from his shave in the shower, John dressed in a manner that he had gotten used to in recent years: sturdy tan pants, billed as "tactical" by their maker, green rigger's belt, dark t-shirt with a design (this one being a dragon with wings spread wide) and a short-sleeved sturdy workshirt, blue in color. Completing the ensemble were a pair of his old Marine Corps suede boots, with a reinforced safety toe.

His preparations mostly complete, he began packing up his suitcase, double and triple-checking the room to ensure that he had everything, and staging it by the door. After all drawers, chairs and tables were checked to ensure nothing was left behind, he sat in the office-style chair at the writing desk and read more of his new-hire packet.

He wasn't reading for long. After but a few pageturns, there was a knock at his room's door. Standing with a sigh, and a sudden realization of just how badly his legs and face were aching, he walked to the door. After a similar exchange of tradecraft from the previous day, a "Giorgio Bianchi" (Funny, John thought, he doesn't look blond at _all_) helped him with his baggage down to a waiting Alfa Romeo 159, done up in standard-issue Nondescript Charcoal Grey(tm). Giorgio wasn't especially talkative, which suited John's state of mind perfectly.

After a brief ride to Catania's bustling airport, John noticed a narrow-bodied turboprop with an odd wing configuration that he didn't recognize sat on one side of the tarmac was loaded with John's luggage. As John boarded the aerial limousine, he noted that several others were already onboard, including Triela and Jean, as well as the pair with whom he had shared a firefight - was it only yesterday? John looked at the young girl with the shoulder-length hazelnut hair who was gazing adoringly at the man next to her, who smiled indulgently. John wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a touch of strain to the young man's face, as though he wouldn't mind being somewhere else right then.

Triela glanced at John as he finishing boarding, and nodded her head in greeting with a small smile, a smile which grew slightly broader when John had to duck to avoid striking his skull on the overhead. The other girl glanced up, and her eyes widened in recognition. Her "fratello" looked up as well, and he stood from his chair, extending his hand. "Glad to see you're not too much the worse for wear. I'm Giuseppe Croce. Call me Giuse - everyone does. This," he indicated the girl next to him, who smiled brightly at the attention "is Henrietta, the other half of my fratello. She makes sure that I don't work too hard." The brunette blushed lightly, and looked down at her hands.

John kept his face neutral. "Call me John Darme. It seem I will be working with you?" His head turned to scan the cabin again, noting that the tall dark-haired man next to Triela raised his eyebrow at the statement. John met his gaze levelly, without rancor or challenge, but also without shrinking from it. To John's surprise, the man gave a small smile, and shook his head sadly. John made a mental note to follow up with that at a later time, when he had his bearings.

Giuse gave a small smile. "Perhaps, although perhaps not with the fratelli... it sounds as though the Director intends for you to join the SRT. We do work with them, sometimes. Not often... the fratelli are more for covert operations." He gave a small, almost Gallic shrug.

John nodded. "I understand. It can be that we will work together again sometime." His face hardened. "I would like very much to kill terrorists with you and Miss Henrietta." He looked over and gave Henrietta a warm smile. She smiled back, then sat back and watched Giuse as he continued.

"Over here is Victor Hilshire, partnered with Triela." Hilshire nodded dourly, and John wondered if he'd imagined that small smile a moment ago. Hilshire's craggy face seemed to be more used to frowns and firmness than moments of friendship. He noted it and looked at the hatch as a final figure walked through it. 'Another cyborg,' he noted, observing the small frame, covered with baggy clothes, and crested with an unruly thatch of flax-colored hair over a pair of startlingly blue eyes.

"Rico," said Jean without preamble, "has everything been loaded?"

Rico smiled brightly, dimpling. "Of course, Jean. Nothing's been left behind, and Mr. Pagani will be coming on board in a minute. He sounded like he was talking to Kara on the phone, and she sounded mad!"

Jean sat there, stone-faced, as this report was delivered in an upbeat manner that John found himself struggling not to smile at, in spite of his somber mood. He wondered who Kara was, and why it would matter if she was mad with this "Mr. Pagani." After a moment's consideration, Jean simply nodded and said "Sit down and buckle up then, Rico." Rico smiled again and took the seat in front of Henrietta, whereupon the two began to chat amiably. John started when he realized that they were talking about Henrietta's firefight in the same tone that most children their age would discuss clothes or television shows that they enjoyed.

Some of his discomfiture must have shown on his face as he sat down across from Giuse, because the handler leaned over. "You become used to it," he commented, performing another of those Gallic shrugs. "When you realise who they are, where they came from, and how much they honestly seem to enjoy the work... it's something that we Handlers have had to adapt to. Not... everyone seems to learn this, however."

Before John could inquire more on that subject, a tallish man in an impeccably tailored suit jacket boarded the aircraft, a mildly-harried expression immediately replaced with a more composed one. "My apologies everyone... Kara is most put out at being left behind on this run, and seems to feel that she should be able to ignore doctor's orders about her shoulder. This will be addressed later on." Jean nodded curtly, and the man, who John assumed must be Michele, went to the command cabin without further delay, snagging a radio headset as he did so.

His mind buzzing with the new information, as well as the leftover input from the previous day, John leaned against the bulkhead of the aircraft. Concentrating on working through everything, he closed his mind in concentration.

He was asleep before the engines began spooling up.

* * *

><p>"This will be yours, pending the completion of all your paperwork," Amadeo said with a good-natured smile, unlocking and opening the door with a single motion. John merely nodded his head, stepping inside the small room, which was laid out in a very spartan fashion, with a bookshelf, desk and chair, and single rack, with a storage locker next to the door, all done in a honey-colored wood. On the wall above the desk was a corkboardwhiteboard combo, bereft of any sun-bleaching or incompletely erased marks. Completely unused. New. Virgin.

John cocked an eyebrow at the thought. Amadeo coughed behind him, startling him out of his nascent musings. John turned and examined his relaxed visage. He wondered idly if the rest of the team was going to accept him as readily as the former San Marco.

It had been a short flight from Catania to Rome's Fiumicino airport. John had woken with the bump of the luxury plane's wheels striking the worn tarmac, snapped instantly alert in a long-forgotten instinctive rush to consciousness. He had lowered his hands from where they had shot up in a defensive posture, feeling acutely self-conscious, certain that everyone had been staring at him. Once he had realised that he was not, in fact, the center of everyone's attention (although Triela was giving him a Look with a raised eyebrow), he stood, rubbing his head and stifling a curse when he struck his crown on the overhead. Just that quickly, he'd forgotten the lesson he'd learned upon boarding the aircraft.

The group disembarked, wheeling their assorted luggage towards the main terminal. The two smaller girls... cyborgs... whatever... were still chatting at full speed, laughing in the sun, and giving off an impression of youthful vigor that was very appropriate, given the time of year. Triela was watching over them with an indulgent smile, carrying a large guitar case that seemed at odds with her crisp, no-nonsense attire that would not have looked out of place on a detective. The adults were moving with a more subdued sense of purpose.

Once they entered the building, John's long legs had had to stretch to keep up with the pace set by Jean. Somehow, Henrietta and Rico did not seem to have a problem, despite their small stature. Instead they moved through the crowd, propelled by sheer bubbliness. John couldn't help but curl his mouth into a small smile as they weaved around opposite sides of a group of besuited businessmen, never faltering in their rapid-fire discussion - of all things, zoo animals.

From the terminal, to another series of waiting Alfa Romeos, and a short trip to the outskirts of Rome... John had been unable to follow exactly where they were driving to, and the convoy had not stayed together; yet they had somehow all rejoined and entered into a walled compound through a security gate, manned by a man in a uniform of some flavor that John didn't recognize.

Which, after meeting up with Amadeo, led John to... what? His quarters, his shelter, his base of operations for his nascent mission of revenge? His expression firmed. Whatever this was going to be, he was doing no good standing in place, woolgathering.

"Thank you, Amadeo," he said absently.

The agent started to speak, thought better of it, then stepped back. He merely said "Get yourself settled, then dial 3273 on your telephone. We'll be expecting your call. Even though your paperwork still has to go through, there's a lot that we can do in the meantime."

John nodded, stepping further into the room and grounding his suitcase next to the storage locker. "What are we doing today?"

Amadeo gave a small grin. "Quartermaster. You'll need a set of utilities to train in. You'll be issued a flak jacket and your tactical gear. After that," his grin broadened, "we'll see what we can find for you in the armory."

John raised an eyebrow. "A bit sudden, isn't that?"

Amadeo shook his head. "Not at all. You're either exactly who you say you are, in which case the sooner we get you on the firing line, the better. Or you're an infiltrator, and you won't survive any attempt you make here." Amadeo shrugged. "Either way, nothing's getting done while you're still standing there." He turned, and walked away, putting his hands in his pockets.

Bemused, John chuckled dryly under his breath, and set about unloading his suitcase.

* * *

><p>It took until the end of the day, but after several trips, John's storage locker and wardrobe were now filled. In addition to receiving a complete set of new (still in plastic wrap!) tactical gear, he had been seen by a perfunctory tailor, who had wielded a tape measure like a knife blade, rapidly measuring and noting his various dimensions on a tablet, before tossing several pairs of both jumpsuits and two-piece utility uniforms in a rather nondescript blue-grey (all bare of patches, but with several velcro-based locations showing where they would be applied, when given to him). The measurements were then typed into a computer whereupon a fax machine's distinctive electronic chattering commenced.<p>

"There is a tailor's shop in town that does an excellent job, fitting suits for government use," said the tailor, answering John's quizzical look. "There is a reason that most agents look like they're wearing a uniform, even in plainclothes." John nodded sagely, then carried his new issue back to his room.

His trip to the armory had proven productive, as well. He had been given a slightly-beaten Beretta 92FS, along with a cleaning kit. Noting that the vast majority of the pistols in the armory seemed to be chambered for the European-preferred 9mm, he kept his mouth shut, but made a mental note to see if he could get ahold of something in a more... _traditional_ flavor, later. Nothing wrong with 9mm, after all, but there was something to be said for a round that struck with a little more "oomph."

Returning to his room, John went through the rituals of every new-join since time immemorial: fitting his newly-issued gear to himself, and noting with dismay that nothing ever seemed to be in QUITE the right spot. Finally shrugging his shoulders, he got the pouches, straps, and buckles in a "close enough for government work" formation.

It was then that he noticed that the light peering through his mostly-drawn blinds was painting his room in a deep orange-red light, and his stomach was protesting it's vacancy most profusely. 'Hrmm,' he pondered, 'now where was that refectory at?' He stood, knees popping, and dusted off his hands. With routine born of habit, he put on his previously-discarded work shirt and stepped out of his room, locking the door behind him.

Walking along the wood-and-plaster hallway, John was struck by how austere they looked - not in the manner of a barracks, but more along the lines of a sanitarium. 'But who are the inmates? The cyborgs, their handlers, or us "normal" ones?' As he walked, his mind continued to wander, focusing for the first time on the concept of the cyborgs. 'Are they children, doing an adult's job? Are they tools, or weapons, to be utilized until they break down? Are they mindless machines? Are they slaves?' He stopped walking, standing near an open window that looked out onto the courtyard. Walking along the brick path towards the archway on the far side was a pair of short (well, to John, most of the personnel here were short) young girls, probably cyborgs, one with rather dramatic red hair, the other with black hair in a boyish cut, topped by a rather incongruous beret. Both were laughing at some unheard joke, and the black-haired one gave her friend a playful shove.

"Amazing, isn't it?" piped up a familiar voice from behind him.

John jumped, spun, and cursed inwardly that he had let his guard down. 'That's happening all too much,' part of him groused. Leaning against the wood paneling of the wall behind him was Giorgio, idly picking his teeth with a contented smile and half-shrouded eyes. "It's almost as though they were real girls, isn't it?" he continued, his expression hardening as the pair in the courtyard disappeared from view.

"I just ponder that," said John, looking at the archway where the girls had vanished, willing his heart to slow down. He kept his expression carefully controlled as the initial adrenaline surge began to calm down, but there still remained a lingering urge to snap the neck of the man who snuck up behind him like thief in the night. "I think to me, 'who are they?'" Keeping his expression neutral, John shifted his gaze back to Giorgio. "What do you say?"

"Me?" Giorgio smirked as he stood up. "I say they're machines, machines that shouldn't be treated like real people. They aren't real people. The things these cyborgs could do, if they were in the proper hands..." He shook his head sadly. "I mean, people like Vic Hilshire seem to do alright, even though his 'Princess' can get sort of above herself. But man, can she kill Padans..." He shook his head again. "But the rest? Give me just one Generation 1 unit... just one! The results I could get Section 2 would be INCREDIBLE."

He stepped forwards. "But that's not where they've put me, more's the pity. It's okay, though. We in the SRT do just fine, too, without the little pampered ghouls. We're a good crew, with a mission success ratio that is unmatched in Public Safety, anywhere."

John kept his expression neutral, stifling a gulp. Reading the literature and getting the pep talk from Amadeo was all well and good, but it occurred to him that the group he was about to join were all consummate professionals, well-trained in fields that he had only skimmed the surface of. Many of them had been hand-picked out of Special Operations units, most likely; men who trained hard, worked harder, and were capable of feats of strength, endurance and skill that John had only previously been exposed to through media.

Despite not showing it, Giorgio must have sensed his nervousness, scenting it like a shark scenting blood in the ocean. He gave a small smile, devoid of mirth. "And they're thinking is that you're going to be working with us, recluta? We made it this far without losing anyone, until Marizio took that grenade. We made those bastardi pay, not that it did Marizio any good at that point." Each sentence was punctuated by another step, bringing him closer and closer to John's personal space. Unusually, Giorgio wasn't talking with his hands, keeping them low and in front of him, almost like a ready stance.

Part of John knew what this was, and had been readying himself for it. He knew that he wasn't going to be able to simply waltz into a fighting unit without being tested. He just hadn't been expecting it quite so soon.

Before the confrontation could come to a head, one of the doors leading to the catwalk opened up, and two women stepped out. One was dressed in a sharp business suit, no-nonsense, with short-cropped dark hair and shrewd, cat-like eyes. The other was speaking in the normal, Italian way, with vigor, volume, and vibrancy, her chestnut hair bouncing as she made her closing point to her compatriot. Incredibly, she was able to carry on the entirety of the conversation whilst snatching bites from the crusty baguette stuffed with salami that she was holding, and occasionally punctuating some important point with.

John blinked as he noted that Giorgio had stepped back against the wall when the door had opened, seemingly unconcerned with anything around him. John met his gaze, which told him implicitly 'later.' John gave the smallest of nods. Giorgio smirked, and stepped away, hands in his pockets, whistling a jaunty tune.

Exhaling, John let his body relax, leaning against one of the stanchions as the two women passed, deep in their conversation, before heading out of the same door that Giorgio had left through. It was a testament to the brown-haired woman's dedication to her subject (the use of shopping as a camouflage, apparently), that her point was still clearly audible for several seconds after their entrance to the next wing.

John took a few seconds to gather his thoughts, noted that the door the women had come through appeared to be the stairwell. Reasoning that the refectory had to be on the ground level, at least, he strolled down it, passing from the artificial lighting back to the natural, the summer sunset washing the grounds outside the double-storied dormitory building with a rich orange-red hue.

Wishing he'd paid attention when he was first walking through the compound, John looked about, finally seeing an adjacent building that had a semi-steady stream of people walking in and out of it. It was the sight of those exiting holding their midsections in a satisfied manner that made his decision for him.

Well, that, and the sudden snarl from his own. Stifling a rueful smile, John headed towards the refectory.

* * *

><p>It had been a quiet meal. Despite what had appeared to be a stream of people entering the refectory, they were apparently the last few people who, like John, had been caught short by various duties. John's unfamiliar form had attracted some curious glances from the few employees and cyborgs seated, but nobody had sat at near the stern-looking man.<p>

The irony was that John had not really been in a bad mood, despite his encounter with Giorgio - his heavy brow merely made him seem to be glowering. But with the lack of conversation to distract him, his thoughts turned inwards again, focusing on the rapidity of change that he had encountered in a very short amount of time. He kept observing details that he normally would have brought to the attention of his daughter, teaching Rebecca about the historical significance of this or that. Each time, his heart would twinge, and his face would harden.

By the time the remainder of his food had gotten cold - which was an unusual state of affairs for John in any case: allowing food to go to waste was anathema - he had worked his mind into a frenzied circle of thought that didn't show on his taciturn visage. His brain whirling like a dervish, he had stood sharply, depositing his tray on the wash rack, and left purposefully, taking long strides in no particular direction.

Part of his mind was stepping back, looking at the situation objectively, and John knew that he really should be paying more attention to this part. He knew, deep down, that any brooding that he would do on this subject would only invite a deeper depression, preventing him from functioning, and if he couldn't function, he couldn't kill the bastards responsible.

The vast majority of his mind, however, was shouting much louder, demanding to know answers that would never be forthcoming, to know why his two greatest loves had been snatched away. The wounds were still too raw, too near for him to separate himself completely from them, and the initial numbing shock that had allowed him to operate tactically had worn off.

The worst part of it all was that he knew the more chance that he had to brood, the worse everything was going to get. If he didn't get set on doing something proactive, very shortly, it was probably not going to go well. The objective part of his mind scornfully denounced that feeling as overly dramatic. The rest short that portion of his mind a metaphysical bird and kept ranting in circular logic.

So it was with a blank look of confusion on his face that he met Amadeo at the door to his room, his casual outfit bathed a dim pink in the fading sunlight. It took a minute for his mind to get itself out of the rut it had spun itself into and register what his eyes were seeing, and a few more for his mouth to operate correctly. "Rossi... need something?"

Amadeo blinked, then spoke. "You have everything you need now, correct? Have all your kit, up to speed with the weapons?

John took a second to finish slowing down the cyclotron of his mind, then replied. "I still need a rifle."

Amadeo chuckled. ["This is my rifle, there are many like it, but this one is mine.] Full Metal Jacket... I love that movie."

John's face remained neutral. "Amico, I recite that every day for 3 months. It's as real a mantra as anything." He took a breath, and calmed himself down some more. "For true, I really do need a rifle if I am to work effectively with the team."

Amadeo, nonplussed by his new teammate's volatile personality, ignored the cold first statement, and nodded his head. "Tomorrow, we train. After you complete a physical fitness test and the obstacle course, we will issue you a rifle, and in the afternoon, you will have your first day of range testing. That, and urban operations, will be your life for the next few weeks."

As he pushed himself off of the wall, Amadeo handed him a cell phone. "This is your new lifeline. All the numbers you need will be included on it. If we need you, you will probably receive a call from either me, Giorgio or Nihad - we're the squadleaders, and until you finally get assigned a squad, you're to work with whomever needs an additional body."

John's face had hardened at the information he was receiving. While he didn't relish the idea of a physical fitness test, he was practically salivating at the idea of burning some brass.

Amadeo looked him up and down briefly. "It looks as though you might need to burn off some of that soft living... don't worry. We will make sure that you will be able to keep up with us." John's ears tinged red at his acknowledgement that he had not been as diligent as might have been necessary in the PT department. Amadeo gave him a chuckle and a good-natured slap on the shoulder. "Not to worry, my new friend. There is potential there. We'll get it from you."

John gave a nod, ears still burning. Amadeo started to turn from the door, before halting himself. "Oh yes... there may be some paperwork at some point tomorrow - we would not be a government agency without the paperwork, would we?" John was forced to concede a small chuckle at that, which brought a natural-looking smile to Amadeo's face.

With an exchange of partings, John stepped back into his room. Now that he had completed his tasks for the day, his mind was free to wander. Idly, he found himself rubbing at the still-raw wounds on his face, assimilating the new sensation of his fingers tracing the length of the fresh soon-to-be scars.

Like his wounds, his mind was still raw, too. At least he didn't feel as though he was going to break down this time... plenty of time for that later. But, unbidden, memories of the last few days kept returning.

Furiously, he knuckled his forehead. "This is it, dammit! Accept it! They're gone... nothing you say or do is going to change that. It's time to suck it up, get past this weakness, and get down to the important stuff."

His eyes, blinking out the last of the stillborn tears, found the Kydex paddle holster that had been issued with his Beretta, with the pistol sitting inside it. He grasped the butt of the weapon, broke it free from the holster's retention systems, ejected the magazine, and pulled the slide back. After racking it several more times to ensure that the breech was clear, he methodically slid the rounds from the magazine, emptying them onto the coverlet on his bed. After making sure that both pistol and magazine were clear, he inserted the empty mag, and began dry-firing. Each snap of the hammer onto an empty chamber resounded in his head like hammerblows on a gong.

It was only when he noted how badly his fingers were hurting that he realised that he had passed two hours on a rookie exercise.

Ensuring the alarm on his new phone was set, John began preparing for bed, trying not to let his mind race as it contemplated this next, exciting, terrifying step in the new direction his life was going.

* * *

><p>Jean and Lorenzo sat opposite each other in Lorenzo's office, sipping tea provided by Lorenzo's discreet female valet. Behind Jean, leaning against the wall with an air of affected insouciance was Amadeo, while Nihad stood at a relaxed rest position, hands clasped at the small of his back.<p>

"What are your impressions of him," asked Lorenzo, coming straight to the point. "Just broaching the subject to Minster Petris gave me a case of tinnitus. Please tell me that we're not making a colossal mistake in breaching security this way."

Amadeo kept his small smile. "Honestly, he's a bit raw. More than a bit, really - Americans always seem to live so soft. But he seems to have the fundamentals, and we can build on that. The important thing is that he's focused. Almost TOO focused - We're going to have to work to get his anger directed to where it's not going to affect his concentration during operations. The last thing we need is a berserker without the control of Conditioning and the abilities of a cyborg to fall back on."

"I should hope," interjected Jean tersely "that we would not be having this conversation if you didn't think you could rein him in. Otherwise, we could always dispatch one of the cyborgs to take care of him."

Nihad shook his head slightly. "Lt. Croce, the man has just lost his family a mere two days ago. The wound is still raw. Time will tell how it will heal, but as long as he has a strong support structure, I don't doubt that he will do just fine with the team."

Amadeo nodded, his smile slipping into a more serious look for a while. "I know we may play second fiddle to the Fratelli, but the SRT will do right by the SWA with this man."

Lorenzo steepled his fingers, brow furrowed slightly in thought. Finally, he removed his glasses and knuckled his eyes for a moment before replacing them. "Very well... I suppose it's something of a moot point at this juncture, being that Minister Petris immediately informed the American consulate of the deaths of two of their citizens, and a third working with the government on a matter of national security. They're making unhappy noises, and are sending a small delegation there tomorrow, in high dudgeon."

Jean grimaced. "Unpleasant, but I suppose it's unavoidable, given the circumstances. I'll get Priscilla working on counter-intelligence first thing in the morning. She and Olga can draft the 'necessary paperwork' to have ready for the consular attache by the time they arrive."

Lorenzo grunted. "I sometimes question just how Italian our agency really is... between the United Nations that the handler's dorm seems to be, to say nothing of the support staff and medical personnel..." His brow furrowed again. "I suppose it's the cost of shielding Italy."

Amadeo chuckled. "Hey, even the Imperium Romanum recruited foreign auxiliaries!"

"And just look where they ended up," growled Jean. Nihad managed to remain politically silent - his own Somalian heritage not needing to be mentioned at this time.

Lorenzo stood. "Ultimately, it comes down to how long we can make use of Darme. If he proves to be a liability... well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For right now, I want the SRT to integrate him as quickly and safely as possible. Get him conversant in Italian - that pidgin that you told me he's making do with isn't going to cut it. As soon as he's up to speed, get him working in an undercover capacity, if possible. Supporting one of the Fratelli would probably be ideal, but we'll slot him in wherever we can fit him."

Amadeo nodded, and stood up from where he had been leaning against the wall. "You got it, Chief. If we can get him up without breaking him, it'll be done quickly."

Lorenzo nodded. "Very well then. You gentlemen go ahead and turn in - I understand tomorrow you're going to run him for a bit?"

Amadeo chuckled. "You could say that."

* * *

><p>"MOVE MOVE MOVE! I'VE SEEN GIRL SCOUTS AT A PICNIC MOVE FASTER THAN THAT!"<p>

Amadeo's voice, all the more startling for coming from the normally-relaxed operator, sliced through the air, overpowering the normal sounds of PT rising above the already-warm field. Interested parties, both from SRT operators and fratelli, observed the self-proclaimed "Agent of Love" making a decent showing as a drill instructor running the new guy through the obstacle course.

John, having managed to let his conditioning slip after several years out of the military, was not making a good showing, impacting against the medium wall, rather than boosting up and over it. After picking himself up several times, he was finally able to skim over, breathing harshly, low-crawling under the following obstacle. He felt he did rather well, however, to avoid from screaming at the abuse his injured hand was being subjected to.

It wasn't long after this that Amadeo called a halt. "Candidato... ATTENTI!" he barked. Chest heaving, John managed to pull himself to the position of attention. He marveled at the fact that he was still able to stand at all, and cursed himself for letting his conditioning slip as much as it had.

Amadeo, joined by Nihad and Giorgio, stood in front of John, shaking his head sadly. "To think that this is what you bring to me, after I spoke so highly of you. Here I was, thinking that an American Marine might be something worth speaking about." John's eyes hardened as his brain caught up with the translation, but he managed to hold his temper. "Instead, you bring this... lukewarm performance in front of me... I certainly hope that you're holding something back. I know that Nihad is going to find it, wherever it may be."

John's heart sank - he knew that Nihad was Somali in heritage, which meant that he'd already experienced more hardship by the age of 10 than John could ever experience in his entire life.

To his credit, Nihad kept any trace of expression from his face, simply saying "At the double, forward... march," and immediately matching John's jogging pace as they took off towards the far end of the exercise field.

Giorgio snorted. "Americans are always so lazy... does Lorenzo really think that the Yankee can match up to our team?"

Amadeo nodded. "So do I, for that matter... he's out of shape, yes, but he's pushing himself - that much is evident. Assuming his time in the military was not a complete farce, we should have him remembering what it's like to work hard within a couple of weeks."

Giorgio looked after the retreating pair. "It's not just that," he said after a few seconds. "I wonder how well he'll fit in with the team once he's back in form. By his own admission, he's never worked in a high-speed field like ours - not even as a... what do they call them? 'SWAT?' You and I both know that most of our squads are formerly special forces from the various branches of the military and police. This guy was an artilleryman! What does he know about infiltration, or squad tactics? Undercover observation? If he comes in and causes a good operator to die..."

Amadeo held up his hands mollifyingly. "It'll be okay, mi amico... You know that we won't let him operate if he doesn't show us that he can handle it... and I think he will do fine. As I told Lorenzo, as long as we can keep him focused, he'll be okay."

Giorgio stood, pondering, then nodded. "Fair enough... so long as he can hack it, he gets a fair shot, same as anyone else on the team. Now, on to other problems: Fausto and Paulo are starting to lose coherency in their room-clearing drills..."

Engrossed in their discussion of tactics and personnel, the two squad leaders didn't pay any further attention to John's nascent heart attack as Nihad pushed him verbally on another lap of the field.

After a series of stretches and cool-down exercises, John was finally released to make his sorrowful, meandering way back to his dorm room. Chest burning and vision blurred from sweat pouring into his eyes, John began lurching his way towards a shower and an attempt at some paperwork that he had just learned was coming his way. As he worked on controlling his breathing, he looked about with interest at the field that he had been unable to examine whilst under Nihad's gimlet gaze.

He noted with interest that there were a fairly large number of young girls - 'Cyborgs, obviously' his brain noted sarcastically - being pushed through their paces by a tall, impeccably turned-out man with slicked-back hair, whose clear voice chivvied the stragglers through their paces with a crisp military demeanor. John noted a redhead with twin pigtails leap over an obstacle - the same 6-foot wall that gave him grief earlier - only to clip the top of it with her toe and come cartwheeling down into the mud obstacle on the other side. This resulted in some small outbursts of hilarity from her "sisters," which was swiftly crushed by the cyborg's own drill instructor via a savagely-cadenced series of push-ups.

It took John a moment to figure out why this scene was sticking in his mind, during which time the girls completed their corrective measures and continued on with their obstacle course run. Finally, it struck him: if these girls had mechanical bodies, why did they need to exercise?

It took several minutes of musing before a theory constructed itself sufficiently in his mind to come to a coherent thought process. 'They're given these bodies, but they don't know how to control them fully, or their brains might need to remap neural pathways to their new musculature. They're superhuman... but they're not perfect."

Somehow, he couldn't decide if this thought was comforting or disheartening. He was still mulling this over when he got to his door, in front of which stood a young woman with shoulder-length hazelnut hair, dressed in a sharp blouse and slacks. After a moment, he recognized her as being the highly-animated speaker that he'd seen in the dorm area the previous day.

With a smile at his bedraggled condition, the young lady stepped up to John. ["Good morning,"] she began in lightly-accented English.

John shook his head with a small smile of his own. "Good morning," he replied. "If you please, we try in Italian. Need to learn."

The young lady's smile broadened. "Very well. My name is Priscilla Meleori, and I'm with the Intelligence division of Section 2. I'm here because I spent all night working on some paperwork for you to sign off on, for the U.S. Government to accept you as being willing to work with us on a matter of national internal security."

John raised an eyebrow, prompting a drop of sweat to fall into his eye. He blinked furiously, which rather spoiled the sardonic effect he was trying for. "I think that make my government... uhm... [suspicious?"]

"Sospettoso," supplied Priscilla, nodding, "And you're correct. They're not saying anything, but if I were them, I'd at least be putting your name in a Homeland Security database as a potential mole from the Italian Government. They've already come to the offices of Minister Petris, who oversees our operations. We shall have to step very carefully - for obvious reasons, we're not exactly a well-known branch of the government."

John gave a hoarse bark of laughter. "You should be English, with the way you understate." He pondered for a moment. "You have papers there?" Priscilla nodded, holding them out for John to look over. Both were managing to overlook the fact that John's workout was starting to catch up with the air between them. "In English and Italian... excellent... okay, I think I know how I can word this so that they don't find anything out... They do not know about the SWA; they know I see a terrorist attack... if I let them think I am working with government as witness, it will be ok. I think." He frowned, thoughtfully.

Priscilla nodded again. "That was what we were hoping to do, as well. Hurry up and get ready to leave - as I said, they are in Minister Petris' office, and asking for you. They think I am an assistant, picking you up from a hotel, but we must hurry."

John gave a small nod, then looked at his watch. "15 minutes?" He gave a small sniff, wrinkling his nose. "Ah... 20?" Priscilla chuckled throatily.

"I will meet you downstairs in the parking lot in 20 minutes. Look for the-"

"Grey Alfa Romeo?" John interjected. Priscilla chuckled again, and nodded. "See you in 20," he replied, opening his door.

* * *

><p>The consular attache left Minister Petris' offices escorted by Priscilla, whose friendly conversation threatened to bowl him over with it's exuberance, leaving him struggling to catch up with her. Which was sort of the whole point - keeping him distracted and not thinking too hard about John's role in the investigation of the terrorist attacks, wondering just why a foreign national was needed to work with the government to such an extent. It made sense that maskirovka was as much a part of SWA operations as MOUT and assassination ops.<p>

John looked at his new work permit, noting distantly that it was made out in his real name. He scowled, and almost crumpled up the single link left to his former life. Instead, he placed it in the file folder that contained all such documents, and resumed walking towards his room with the file under his left arm.

It was official, now. The United States had (grudgingly) authorized the Italian government to utilize one of its citizens for tasks "of a valuable service to the Italian people, in the spirit of NATO cooperation." Maintaining his Inactive Ready Reserve status in the Corps had not turned out to be a waste of time, after all.

Whatever. It furthered his goals to associate with the SWA. Their immediate goal was the complete annihilation of the Padania Republic Faction and its criminal and terroristic associates. To include the cowardly bastards who took his family away from him.

His left fist clenched hard against the folded bottom of the file, leaving uneven indentations from the two remaining fingers on that hand. After some moments of breathing hard ('the nerve of that woman, going behind my back, behind the SWA's back... the only group that can do something here, and she's almost blowing their cover?'), John reined in his temper, and sat back down in the anteroom chair. Minister Petris' secretary remained tacitly silent, despite having bore witness to the Minister's guest's... episode.

It wasn't long before Priscilla's return, her expression devoid of the chirpy vapidness that she had been displaying, replaced instead with a more genuinely warm smile. She coughed once she entered the room, snapping John out of his still-rambling internal monologue. "All ready to leave?"

"Yes, Miss Meleori. I have my papers. Now, for more training."

Priscilla tsked sternly. "Ah-ah-ah..." she clucked, waggling a finger. "I have been advised to have you meet some of the rest of the staff this afternoon. Normally, I would take you to where Amadeo and Giorgio and the rest of the leatherheads hang out, but most of them have been tapped for a mission today."

John raised an eyebrow, wondering why no-one had told him, before giving himself a mental slap upside the head. Obviously, he was still FAR too raw to even be considered a part of the team. He would have to train even harder - a prospect that his aching body did not relish.

"Instead, I thought it might be a good idea to meet some of the handlers and their fratelli." John blinked, processing the translation in his head for a moment, before a brief, involuntary shudder took him.

Concerned, Priscilla's eyebrows knotted. "What's the matter?"

John shook his head. "Please... excuse me. I mean no bad. Is just... sometime I think to me that little girls should not do this work. I see little brown-hair girl that first day... she is very good at this - much better than me. I see blonde with twin-tails - Triela, yes? - she is very polite, very calm... but her eyes like tiger."

Priscilla's expression softened. "I understand where you are coming from. I thought the same thing when I first was recruited here from the Financial Guard. Working with Angelica - Amadeo told you about Angelica?" Priscilla's expression took on a dreamy look, with a wistful edge to it. "Angelica was a delight. I saw her file, with what happened to her before she came to us. With the SWA's doctors working on her, she was able to move again, to walk, to run..."

Her voice took on a slightly husky tone, and she swallowed heavily before continuing. "But her mind wasn't able to accept the extensive prosthetics without serious damage. It was through the use of the conditioning that she was able to function at all, but it came at the cost of her identity." Her expression firmed, and she swallowed again. "But with us, with the SWA, she wanted to help. All she wanted to do was to work with us. She understood that we had given her this wonderful gift, and she wanted to pay us back, however she could. She would sometimes say 'I've been given this chance to help, this life that brought me Marco and his stories... what kind of person would I be if I didn't do everything I could to help him?"

John felt himself tearing up, in spite of himself. Priscilla noted it, and chuckled, despite the fact that her own eyes were far from dry, themselves. "She does have that effect on people. Always did... when we get back to the compound, I'll show you where we buried her... as well as tell you the story of what happened." As she finished the last sentence, her voice took on a surprisingly hard tone, almost like a snarl. John was taken slightly aback, until she waved her hand. "Later. For now," she shook her head, and her voice became more cheerful, "I think you'd enjoy seeing the girls that we've helped, and the lives that they live today."

John stood, then thought about something. "Is just girls?" he asked, double-checking to make sure that he hadn't left any paperwork behind. Priscilla nodded, and the pair exited the anteroom and proceeded towards the elevator bank.

"At our compound, there are only female cyborgs. They live in their own dorm, apart from the handlers and other adult staff. Amadeo probably didn't talk about them so much, because he and the other leatherheads usually only work with the fratelli in a support role. To be fair," she added as the elevator she had summoned during their conversation arrived with a jaunty *DING* "We really haven't had that many opportunities to deploy the SRT en masse... they tend to go out in small groups, acting as undercover support operatives."

John nodded once the translation worked itself through his head. "Makes sense... we are a 'secret' organization, n'est-ce pas?"

Priscilla quirked a smile. "Kara's going to love you. And yes, sending out a group of unmarked paramilitary troops would no doubt get attention from the public... even in a country with as many 'special forces' groups as Italy."

John's look of surprise coincided with their elevator reaching the ground floor, and the pair stepped out, heading towards the main entrance. John gallantly held the door for Priscilla as she continued explaining. "Oh, you didn't realise it? Not even counting the military units like the 'Col Moschin' paratroops and the Navy's COMSUBIN, the various police forces each have their own counterterrorism or special forces units... you have the NOCS from the Polizia di Stato, the Carabinieri's GIS, my Guardia di Finanzia's own ATPI... I shouldn't wonder that the Polizia Postale don't have their own CT unit hidden from view, somewhere." John couldn't help but smirk at the idea, and Priscilla's eye's sparkled at working a small chuckle from the thus-far taciturn American.

As they finished loading up the Alfa Romeo with everything that they'd brought with them, Priscilla finished up her tangent. "But the thing is, the public knows about these units... their takedowns are published to the media, they march in the parades... we can attempt to camouflage the SRT by applying other unit's patches, we can try and keep things low-key, but we both know that things will not always go according to plan." John nodded, even though his sampling of this particular area was extremely limited.

"But they train for the big operation that may never happen, because Mr. Pieri believes in being thorough. And whenever they're needed, they work in the field with the rest of us. And so will you, when you're ready." She finished up with a broad smile that reached her eyes. John made up his mind that he rather liked this feisty operative - whose personality came off as being genuinely likeable, rather than annoyingly cheerful, as many such often did for him.

"Buckle up," she said, despite the fact that her own seatbelt hung by her side. Before John could question her, she turned the key, revved the engine, slapped the Alfa into gear as though it had personally offended her, and the grey sedan leapt from it's parking space as though it was kicked in the trunk by a petulant god-child. "I hope you like gelato," remarked Priscilla cheerfully as she dodged Roman traffic, utilizing horn and hands in some Mediterrannean mantra for parting gridlocked cars that John was simply not privy to.

Replying that he did, John finally was able to engage his seatbelt, and seized the "oh shit" handle above his door with a grip that was just shy of white-knuckle, murmurming vague oaths and imprecations with each jerk of the car.

Oh yes, he enjoyed gelato. And Priscilla was going to owe him a nice big one after this trip.

* * *

><p>Surviving the trip without incident, other than the addition of a few new gray hairs, John noted as he got out of the car that the sun playing down through the architecture surrounding the piazza was rather calming - just what one needed after his impromptu introduction to Roman driving. At times, Priscilla's hands hadn't even been on the wheel as she kept up three seperate conversations between John, the drivers surrounding her, and a third party on her cell phone. All while talking with her hands again. John took in a ragged breath.<p>

Remarking upon his somewhat-harried look, one of a cluster of gentlemen at the edge of the gelateria gave a small chuckle, and nodded his head. "Been introduced to Priscilla's... expedient style of driving, I see." He extended a hand. "I saw you on my plane, but never got a chance to make your acquaintance. Michele Pagani, at your service."

John leaned in slightly and grasped Michele's hand, shaking it firmly, without the stereotypical "contest of strength" that sometimes emerged from such contacts. Acknowledging the American didn't feel the need to exert himself in a pointless show of force, Michele nodded with a slight smile, releasing his hand.

Catching on to the subtle phrasing that Michele had spoken, John raised an eyebrow. "It is your plane, signore Pagani?" When Michele nodded an affirmation, John let out a low whistle, then reddened. "Excuse me, I am sorry... I just... I never meet someone who own a plane before."

An older man who bore an slight resemblance to Sean Connery, had the actor retained his body-building physique let out a rumbling chuckle. ["Pagani has considerably more than the plane, young man," he said, in an accent that carried more than a hint of Albion underneath it's Italian overtones. "I sometimes wonder if he's not secretly bank-rolling the entire endeavor."]

Priscilla waggled an admonishing finger. "Tut tut, Elio! How is John supposed to pick up Italian if you carry him in English?"

John managed valiantly to avoid bursting out laughing as the obvious veteran managed to look both contrite and indulgent at the same time. He even wrung his hands and looked under his brow at Priscilla, who gave a broad smile. "I am sorry, Miss Meleori. Please, Miss Meleori, don't make make stand in the corner."

Priscilla rubbed a hand under her chin. "A girl could get used to this sort of behavior," she murmured, sotto voce. John let out a small snicker - he couldn't help it. Priscilla's good humor, and the easy cameraderie of the coterie of handlers made it near-impossible to hang onto the icicle of bitterness that rested within him.

The tall, brown-haired man to the rear of the group finished chuckling, and added with a voice that rested on a bed of shamrocks "In all fairness, though, she does have a point. If we're going to get you up to speed," (John noted an assortment of eyerolls and facepalms when he spoke the metaphor, and wondered if there was subtext he was missing) "we do have to fully immerse you until you can keep up."

John nodded, his face slipping back into it's neutral expression (the one his wife had always told him that made him look angry all the time... dwell on it later, John). "You have reason... If I cannot even talk, then I am no good to you. Or me. I will get better. I must."

The group shared an uneasy glance at the suddenly chilly tone. Coughing into her fist, Priscilla took a new tack with the conversation.

"Well, you've not really been introduced to everyone yet, so let's make the rounds! This roguish gentleman here," she said, indicating Sean Connery's stunt double, who lifted a cup of coffee in acknowledgement, "is Elio Alboreto. The cheeky beanpole in the back is Brian McDonnell."

Footsteps approached the table from behind the indicated handler - John noted everyone's body language shifted subtly to a more tense posture, prepared to react on a moment's notice. After Brian quickly glanced over his shoulder, however, with everyone else's gaze following, the group relaxed.

John saw that the two newcomers were an adult male, sharply dressed without being ostentatious about it, and a teenage girl, dressed in a similar, modest fashion, her short black hair topped with a jaunty beret. He realised that he recognized both, even as they approached the group.

"Agapita, why don't you go see what your friends are picking out inside?" said the new man. After a brief exchange of glances between the pair, Agapita put on a smile that was only slightly for show, and practically skipped inside. The man then turned his attention to the group, shaking hands with everyone, before his gaze settled on John. "And who do we have here? Another new-hire, come to sample the finest gelato in Roma? Well met, friend!" And before John could decide if he liked the effusive exuberance of the squared-away gentleman, he was pulled into a very masculine arm-clasp, complete with underlying test of strength. Stifling an eyeroll, John gave as good as he got, avoided wincing, and the two pulled back from each other. "Avise Mancini, at your service!" He clicked his heels, almost in a chariacture of a Prussian martinet, to the tune of more eye-rolling from the group.

John couldn't help it - he found himself rather liking the man whom he recognized as the cyborg's "drill instructor" from earlier on in the day. "A pleasure to meet you, sir," said John firmly, with a nod of his head. He managed to successfully hide the throbbing discomfort in his right hand by keeping it behind his back, held in place by his left and maintaining that he was merely holding a parade rest stance - not trying to overcome the effects of someone whose clasp felt as though it almost cost him several fingers.

"John Darme," he said. Avise's eyebrows raised, took in the rest of the group (whose reactions were mostly in a "humor him" vein), and nodded his head slowly. "I... see. Perhaps one day, you may tell me a tale of how you got such an... interesting name?"

"Perhaps," said John, his expression and tone level.

The awkward tone in the air persisted for a moment, then a gaggle of young teenaged girls clamored out of the gelateria, each decrying the merits of their chosen frozen treats.

John blinked at the sudden appearance of the cheerily chattering youths, who ran the gamut from a short and cheerful redhead, her hair in pigtails, to a tall, elegant asian girl, her clothing practically screaming it's price to the world. Agapita cheerily continued a flowing conversation with the redhead, whom John had last seen performing a vigorous faceplant into the mud, earlier that day. A modestly-tall brunette completed the group, and John flashed back to what Priscilla had told him earlier, about meeting the fratelli.

While he could conceive of a fratello as an abstract, once again, coming face to face with the reality of the cyborgs in real life hit him between the eyes like a 2x4. These girls, these... _children_ were lethal special operations specialists - as much, if not moreso than any Navy SEAL or Green Beret... and here they were, in the middle of Rome, just off of the beaten path, and enjoying the summer's relaxed atmosphere like any other schoolchildren.

The girls caught the edge of the remaining tension in the air, although it was Marisa (naturally) who was the last to catch on, her voice loud to reach over the combined buzz of the surrounding crowd and the animated conversations that had petered off around her, without her notice.

"So I said to him, stick it up your- erk." Her wide blue eyes flicked around, before settling on Elio, who simply raised one snow-capped eyebrow. She stifled a nervous gulp, settling instead for a murmured "whups."

John couldn't help it. The moment was just too perfectly crafted for any reaction other than what followed. Sitting in his chair, he tried valiantly to stifle snickers, but they crept past the hand he held against his mouth. With each brief explosion of hilarity, Marisa's face would get pinker, her embarassed expression giving way to one of annoyance. Which, of course, only made it worse.

As John finally succumbed to his sense of humor's bludgeoning of his psyche, Marisa turned crossly to Agapita. "I don't think I like this adult very much, she muttered, not nearly as sotto voce as she probably should have been.

John fell out of his chair.

* * *

><p>After recovering from his borderline-hysterical giggle-fit, John was able to politely decline an offer to spend the rest of the afternoon with the fratelli. At Priscilla's slightly-concerned look, John waved her off with a wan smile, reassuring her that he was feeling very fine, and merely wanted a little time alone in the city before returning to the compound. After receiving bus directions and an address where he could be dropped by taxi, as well as a bit of spending money (courtesy of someone's "discretionary spending fund," no doubt) handed over in crisp, middling-denomination bills from Alboreto, John ventured out into Rome proper.<p>

He spent a bit of time meandering aimlessly, peoplewatching, trying not to focus on the families that laughed and took photos of the various landmarks. He passed by the old Roman Forum ruins and let himself get immersed in the sheer history of the city that had seen numerous conflicts over the last couple of millenia.

He pondered the tourists - people going about their lives in ignorance of the powder-keg that the country was becoming. He knew that when he'd looked into coming here with his family, there had been some travel advisories, telling of the protests that would occasionally pop up at random, but like these people, he'd paid them no mind.

Now he knew what was directing the protests, the violence that would occur on the sidelines, to say nothing of the opportunists who would sieze the chance to make some gains of their own in the confusion. He had tasted of the SWA's Tree of Knowledge, and it was not something that he could unlearn.

And, despite the horrible price he'd had to pay to learn it... John didn't think that he'd want to remain ignorant. Not when he was poised to be a part of the group attempting to affect the course of this country, the European Union it was part of, and ultimately the stability of the Western world.

And the girls with whom he'd had lunch were the linchpins to the whole design. Reinforced by more mundane, but no less important adults. Like himself.

John returned to the main streets, and hailed a taxi. He had training tomorrow: it was time to join the team. One man might not be able to make a difference, so far as he could tell, but a group, working in unison, could change the world. And John did not intend to get left behind.

* * *

><p>In his office, Lorenzo sat, reviewing files. Priscilla, Olga and Jean stood to one side. "And this is all of the intel we've been able to obtain?"<p>

Priscilla nodded her head, a discomfited expression on her face. "All we've been able to determine thus far is that they appear to be Croatian dissidents, left over from the conflict in the Balkans. We have no funding leads, no contracts have been put out, nothing but their identities through Interpol." She shook her head. "Nothing yet to tie them to Taormina."

Lorenzo steepled his fingers on his chest, leaning back in his chair. "If this is a move to utilize a cats-paw by the Padans or the Five Republics Faction, it's an unusual move for them. Part of their whole argument is against these people even coming into Italy."

Jean's brow furrowed. "A new player? A counter-faction? I don't like what this suggests." Everyone else nodded their heads in grim agreement. It wasn't as if the Italian Government didn't have enough enemies, both without and within as it was.

Priscilla spoke up. "I've sent the word out through the usual networks to start casting a broader net. In addition to their usual targets, we've started examining extranational sources, just in case. It's not much to go on, but it's all we have for now."

Olga spoke up. "Now I see why you asked me to sit in on this one, sir. I will ask around my old contacts through the embassy, see if anyone on the other side of the old Curtain has heard anything that might have been lost by the time they got here."

Lorenzo nodded his head. "Good. Section One is officially working the investigation on this one, but we'll see what our sources can turn up." He coughed thickly for a moment, fist to his mouth, before continuing. "Now, in reference to the Taormina operation... after the bombing, it would appear that the smugglers have holed up in a warehouse in Catania - the whole thing has spooked them, apparently.

Now, because of exposure already through Henrietta's actions at the bombing, I don't feel comfortable deploying a fratello to handle this mission."

Jean raised an eyebrow, and Lorenzo held up a conciliatory hand. "My friend, it would be one thing if they didn't know we were coming, but now they're nervous, and expecting a fight. It's time for more... conventional means."

Olga gave a small, wolfish smile. "Oh, Giorgio _will_ be pleased."

**END PART ONE**

* * *

><p>Well... it has been a long time coming for such a small offering. And yet, I've put a fair amount of effort into this, working whenever I can, getting around the requirements of both my job and my family to toss a few sentences into this every now and then.<p>

And here I sit, nervous, tossing this into the Aether in the hopes that y'all might enjoy the direction in which I'm taking my little slice of the fanon.

MUCH thanks to the entire crew at the Cyborg Central Forum for putting up with me, feeding me constructive criticism, and generally being an awesome sounding board. A few of their Original Characters feature in this, as the more astute of you may have noticed already. Thanks, Professor Voodoo, Kiskaloo, Robert Frazer, Alfisti, and MP5! Comments, criticisms and other assorted communiques may be directed to:

**officer dot charon2 at that email wossname from Google.**

*eyeroll at spambots*


	2. Chapter 2 - Unlocking

Cohortes Urbanae Present

A Stygian Productions fan presentation

Gunslinger Girl

- Men-At-Arms -

Based on and utilizing characters and situations created by YU AIDA.

Original characters used with permission of their creators.

PART TWO

Unlocking

"Okay gents, this is a simple operation, but listen up, all the same!" Giorgio's voice, despite being kept to a low volume, managed to cut through the miscellaneous chatter from the nearly two dozen men assembled outside of a defunct fuelling station. After several seconds of mutual hushing, all eyes and ears were focused on the shaven-headed operator. "It's a normal 4-corner warehouse. We'll be going in with a three-team formation: Schiavona, Lanciere and Sagittario. Schiavona, under Amadeo will cover corner Alpha-Bravo" he indicated the north and east walls, respectively, "while Lanciere with me will cover Charlie-Delta. Nihad's Sagittario will set up sniper positions on another warehouse to the south, covering Charlie. The south side of the target building has the majority of the rollup loading doors, but there are still some to the north, so don't lose sight of them!"

He sketched as he talked, the layout of the target building following each of his points. "Interior layout is pretty normal – it's a single floor deal, so we don't have to worry about any catwalks above us. Racks are located here, here and here, with a second tier along the north wall, blocking most of the rollup doors there. Over here along the western wall are offices, with some caged storage areas in this corner."

He changed to a different colored pen. "Upon securing your corners, Schiavona will hold fast, extending along Alpha to cover Alpha-Delta as well. I know I shouldn't have to say this, but watch your crossfire – if any of you stronzi hit each other, you'll have to deal with me, capisci?"

When Schiavona's in position, Lanciere will make entry through this single swinging door, after making sure it's clear. If any of the rollups are open, we'll use them, too, depending on how many are there. Sagittario will advise of any potential targets at this point. If any of the rollups are open, the assault will commence on my signal, with Sagittario making their shots. Otherwise, we'll breach the swinging door, gas and bang, then assault. Points of concern will be the racks – watch for anyone up high there."

After marking out assault routes, Giorgio finished up the brief. "As soon as all targets are down, check for the explosives, secure any intel, then exit through the north doors. Once everyone's accounted for, load up in the bus, and we're out of there."

He looked up, his mouth curled in an anticipatory grin. "Any questions?" After making sure that everyone understood their roles in the plan, he rubbed his hands together. "Let's get to it, then. Load up in order Sagittario, Lanciere, Schiavona, from the front to rear." Nihad nodded, gathered up his fellows by eye, and the stone-faced sniper team boarded the generically-colored tour coach. Giorgio followed with his team, with Amadeo's bringing up the rear. Once everyone was situated, Olga, seated in the driver's position and dressed as a member of a tour company, pressed the button to secure the coach's doors, and with a guttural rumble, the coach pulled away from the station.

After a 5 minute ride, the behemoth pulled alongside the east side of the neighboring warehouse. As soon as it finished moving, the doors were already open, and the sniper crews flowed out like blue-grey and black water, swiftly moving to climb the ladders towards their location. The other two teams then followed suit, using the large cinderblock building as cover. Giorgio poked his head around his corner.

Two of the four rollups were open, allowing for a fairly open view into the target building's interior. But even better, the other two doors were blocked by trailers backed up to them. Excellent.

Moving quickly, and managing to keep the trailers between the door and themselves, both teams moved to the target building's southeastern corner. Amadeo and Giorgio exchanged a broad grin, only their eyes visible above their balaclavaed and helmeted heads, before their two teams split up. Giorgio had the hard task – his men had to stay below the lip of the loading dock area and move quietly, breaking up into three groups of three as they did so.

In contrast, all Amadeo had to do was hug the eastern wall – no windows were set into it to give his position away. It didn't take them long to get set up and cover their assigned sectors – Amadeo even had two men to spare to climb slowly up the ladder on the eastern wall.

A quiet crack, almost lost in the background noise of Catania traffic caused Giorgio's head to whip around behind him. A soft voice from his radio earpiece spoke. "One down on the roof. He was about to spot the two climbing."

Giorgio double-clicked his mic in response. Nihad was a professional – he knew not to make an unnecessary shot.

Once all routes of fire and entry were secured, Giorgio waited. This was the part that he hated – that moment when you ran through everything in your head, trying to find the holes that were going to get someone killed. Last mission, he thought he'd covered everything, and Maurizio had paid anyway.

Chief Lorenzo's voice rang in his head. "You can't plan for everything. Sometimes, Fate steps in, despite everything. There's no sense in beating yourself up over it – just do the best you can. Nobody can ask more."

Lorenzo's would-be consigliore Alboreto - the only handler that Giorgio had time for any more – had put it even more succinctly: "Shit happens. Learn from it, and don't let it happen the same way twice."

Nihad's voice murmured into the earpiece again. "We have 3 targets selected. All teams ready to move?" After a pair of affirmations, Nihad simply responded "Go, go, go." The third word was almost obscured by nearly-simultaneous muffled cracks.

Giorgio's legs launched him up and over the lip of the loading dock. He heard the screech of the swinging door being breached by a Halligan tool, and the distressed shouts coming from inside the warehouse as the Mafiosi inside realized what was happening. Giorgio was able to see a group of four standing from a cable spool being used as a makeshift table, littered with cards. As they reached for nearby AK-platform rifles, his readied Beretta AR70/90 snapped twice, then twice again. Next to him, Fausto's own rifle snapped in time with his. All four of the Mafiosi crumpled to the ground, like puppets with their strings cut.

A quick scan of the area showed similar effects amongst the other assembled criminals. A pair came out of the office area, only to be scythed down by rapid, controlled shots. One tried to flee out of the north door, only to be taken by Amadeo's team. The racks proved themselves to be somewhat unable to serve as firing platforms, as one over-eager shooter plummeted down from amongst the boxes with a scream, cut off by a crunching as he hit the poured concrete floor. A few attempted to get in close to use their knives or clubs, only to find the troopers turning their own weapons against them. The walls and roof echoed with gurgles and muffled screams.

And just that quickly, it was over. "All teams report casualties," Giorgio barked, even though he could tell by a quick head count that his team was still intact. After receiving similar reports from Amadeo and Nihad, he called for Amadeo's team to come inside to help with the search for explosives and intel.

Paulo was the one who found the big prize – shipping orders in the form of a bookie's notebook, found on the body of one of the pair who had been cut down whilst exiting the office. A quick scan showed that, beneath a rudimentary naming code, the small green book showed where in Italy – and in neighboring countries – the shipments of Semtex had been going, on which carriers. "Priscilla's gonna give me such a kiss for this!" crowed the slender man, his facial scar distorted by the size of his grin.

Giorgio chuckled, then became serious again. "Okay guys, gather up everything. We leave in 3 minutes." He keyed his mic again. "We're all good here, Nihad. Get on the bus." Releasing the transmit button, he continued. "The rest of you guys, head to the door. As soon as the bus pulls up, we're out of here."

Once the doors were closed again and Olga pulled away, entering Catania's traffic as casually as she'd left it, Giorgio allowed himself to take off his helmet and balaclava, scrubbing his hands over his stubbly head. If it wasn't for the fact that he did so much undercover work, he wouldn't even bother with the damned thing, but the last thing he needed was for someone to recognize him, on the off-chance that there was anyone left, hidden.

After checking to make sure his weapon was still on safe, he leaned his seat back. "Damn, I love my job," he said, shutting his eyes and listening to the rest of his team excitedly running through the scrap again.

* * *

><p>Sunlight crept upon the head resting on the firm pillow, creeping over the still-healing scars on the right cheek, before bludgeoning the sleeping man firmly between the eyes. With a grumble, he flopped onto his side, left hand moving to cover his eyes. Unfortunately, the action was arrested by the ragged stumps where the last two fingers had been snagging on the sheet, drawing the fabric over where stitches were still holding flesh together. The resulting shock of pain whiplashed up his arm to his brain, and he jerked his hand back, as if scalded.<p>

Per Murphy's Law, there was only one way this could have ended up.

Rubbing his eye from where his retreating hand had struck it, the man lay on his pillow and idly contemplated eating his Beretta, in order to prevent the lousy start to the day from continuing. It is a testament to his willpower that he only kept the thought in his mind for 5 seconds.

With a long, sonorous groan, the man now known as John Darme pulled himself up from his bed. His body, used to a routine of relaxation, was making its protests at the previous day's physical training known, vociferously. His arms, in particular were making sure he knew that they were feeling abused. Mechanically, he looked over at his phone, checking the time, and groaned again, more heartfelt than before, when he saw that there was still 40 minutes before he was supposed to meet Amadeo on the training field again. Not enough time to get a decent amount of sleep, but too much time to start getting ready for the day.

'So much for your resolve to train hard,' a small voice inside sneered. 'Is this all the memory of Rebecca and Leah are worth? Self-pity and whining? Get your lazy ass up! You're not getting yourself fit to kill those sons-of-bitches who put you in this situation if you sit there and feel sorry for yourself for doing a little exercise.'

It never failed to amaze John what he could accomplish, with sufficient motivation. He pulled himself out of bed without another sound, forced himself to run through a series of exercises known as the "Daily Seven," so by the time his alarm went off, he merely felt elderly. Breathing deeply, and coated with a light sheen of sweat, he changed into his workout clothes, drank a bottle of water, then stepped out of the door.

He caught himself humming a cadence as he stepped out. After a moment to think about it, he continued, changing his step to match the pace. Striding down the hallway, he found himself driving his heels, muttering drill commands, following them, and generally getting into the proper frame of mind until he heard a door open to his right, near one of the stairwells.

Out strode Avise Mancini, clad in a full PT uniform, his T-shirt bearing an insignia that John didn't recognize, with the word "Bersaglieri" on the left breast, John halted instinctively, snapping his heels together as he did so, although he managed to halt his hand before it snapped up in a salute. Avise raised an eyebrow.

"Uhm, good morning, sir!" John barked. Avise held up a hand in a conciliatory fashion, and laughed slightly.

"At ease, at ease… Just where did this come from, all of a sudden?"

John relaxed, self-consciously, and chuckled wryly. "Well… it could be that I never do good with officers, when I am a Marine. Also, the fact that you take your military life more serious than the others I meet so far… It seems… appropriate."

Avise raised an eyebrow again. "Well now… I can respect that." His face became more genial. "But you really should relax! Even if I am an officer, I don't think you're in my chain of command, so it's really a non-issue."

John gave another chuckle. "It could be so… You go for a run? Training?"

Avise nodded. "I help train the cyborgs, but I would never order them to do something that I could not do myself. So, I fear that even though it may spoil my reputation as a taskmaster extraordinaire, I must spend the coin of sweat in order to purchase my position." He finished with a grandiose gesture, ending in a pose that left John looking for a cape fluttering dramatically in the breeze behind him.

John managed to stifle a laugh, departed after a few more words of chit-chat, then departed at a brisk walk towards the training field. Whilst enroute, he ruminated on how different the personnel in this "Section 2" seemed to be. Very few appeared to fit his mental idea of what a covert operative would be like – most seemed to be sanguine in temperament, even jovial. Only a couple that John had met so far seemed grim, or at least quietly lugubrious. He wondered if it was as a result of the work that they did being so self-satisfying.

As he crunched across the gravel lot to where the grass of the training field began, he decided that he might try giving the sanguine attitude a try. At the very least, part of him noted, it could help prevent him from burning himself out. He'd seen it happen before, and was in no hurry to meet the same end that he had witnessed.

Another part remarked, somewhat cruelly, that it was all well and good to think that, but what about Rebecca and Leah? Would he be able to write off their deaths so casually and simply move on? To carry on with a smile on his face, even as they lay in some Italian coroner's slab, awaiting an extradition order?

It was with this bitter taste in his mouth that he met Amadeo, and began the day's training session. His protesting body was pushed through another set of exercises – a set that part of his mind noted as being somewhat less strenuous than the previous day's – even while his spirit attempted to recover from the self-flagellation from earlier.

Finally, Amadeo called a halt to their training. John slouched, trying to regain his breath. "My friend," Amadeo began, "it appears to me that your mind is elsewhere today… what's going on?"

After slowing his ragged breaths down enough to allow coherent speech, John coughed, then answered. "You can say… a crisis of faith." At Amadeo's quizzical look, he elaborated on his moral dilemma. The former San Marco nodded, his shoulder-length hair waving back and forth.

"I see now… I'm afraid I have no easy answer for you. But I will tell you this: Almost everyone in Section 2 has been affected in similar ways as you. Maybe not quite as deeply, in some cases, but we have all been touched by the hand of Padania, or other terrorist groups. Believe me when I say that your feelings, they will empower you, but do not let them control you."

John pondered this for a moment, before nodding. "I do that, the bastardi win."

Amadeo gave a wolfish grin. "And we can't have that, can we?"

John's responding grin was spoiled somewhat by another cough. But the sentiment was clear.

* * *

><p>As John trudged back towards his room, the numbness in his limbs and chest beginning to be replaced by ache, he heard the puttering of a Vespa. Looking up, he saw Priscilla pulling into her usual spot. As she took of her helmet and shook out her hair, John was struck by the thought that it was rather strange, a top-notch (allegedly, John had not yet seen her in action) intelligence operative at a premier covert operations group… and she rides a cheery yellow scooter as her POV of choice. He shook his head. Just goes to prove the saying that "it takes all kinds."<p>

He pushed on, grimacing as his legs informed him that they did not appreciate the stairs up to the floor his room was on. So focused was he on the grumbling of his body that he failed to notice the figure standing outside his door, hand raised to knock. They turned, showing their self to be a slightly androgynous individual, wearing a poorly-tailored suit.

Something about the individual's demeanor set John's hackles up, and he nodded curtly. "Morning, friend. Can I help you?"

"Giovanni diMarco, Section 1." The proffered hand was shaken, and his limp, clammy grip made John's skin crawl. "The U.S. consulate has completed their documentation on the disposition of your family – death certificates have been issued. Should you choose to, arrangements could be made to inter them in Italy, but…" he trailed off at the granite-hard look that John shot him. Stifling the urge to swallow nervously, diMarco held out a manila envelope. "I leave it up to you, then. Good day, Mr. St-"

"Darme," interrupted John huskily, blinking away tears. "My name is John Darme."

* * *

><p>Stepping off of the boarding ramp an onto the airport concourse proper, John couldn't help but wince. The sounds and smells were all too familiar, all too fresh in his memory from… oh God, had it really only been a week ago? It seemed as though everything from the boarding ramp onwards conspired to make him feel melancholy: the restaurants flanking the concourse, where he had purchased a snack for his daughter whilst they waited for their flight to begin boarding; the kiosks and shops hawking their trite, overpriced wares that never failed to annoy him at the best of times.<p>

The non-descript man flanking him didn't help to facilitate matters, either. The Social Welfare Agency's Section 1 had peremptorily assigned him an escort (John had taken to calling him a "handler," in a fit of bleak humor) to ensure that nothing happened to threaten John… and that John did nothing to threaten the agency. The two didn't talk much – the man's English was decent enough, but he had the temperament of a Doberman with a toothache, and John's own mood wasn't much better.

As they went down the escalators to the car rental desk, John adjusted to the surreal experience of hearing his native language all around him again. In previous years, this had always been a source of warm nostalgia for him – now all it left with him was the taste of bitter ashes in his mouth. While his handler went to see about their transportation, John noted an obese man in a black suit with a taller (and more slender) man standing behind him. Despite the coolness of the terminal, the larger man was sweat-slicked. He was also holding a sign with John's real name marked on it.

Walking over to him, John nodded his head. ["Waiting for me, gentlemen?"]

At the affirmative responses, he stuck out his hand and introduced himself. ["Ray Baker,"] intoned the portly man with an air of solemnity, ["and this is Rick Weeks. Allow me to first tell you how sorry I am for your loss, and-"]

John held up a hand, swallowing frantically at the lump that threatened to climb out of his throat, but unable to do anything about the tears in the corner of his eyes. After a moment of awkward silence, he spoke up, his voice somehow managing to not crack. ["Please, no platitudes. Gentlemen, thank you for your help in bringing my girls home. We'll be going straight from here to the funeral home, if it's all the same to you?"] At their nods, he smiled sadly, thanked them for their time, and agreed to meet them in the arrivals area in front of the terminal, so they could travel in convoy to where perhaps the hardest part of this whole gut-wrenching process waited.

The drive from the airport to Savannah proper took less time than he thought it would. Weaving through the midday traffic was handled with a minimum of fuss, and they pulled up to the centrally-located funeral home without mishap. The two hearses pulled under the covered portico that led to the "business" section of the funeral chapel. A team of men dressed in somber suits awaited to carry the two coffins inside.

John had been weighing the different ways to handle the arrangements for Rebecca and Leah… ultimately, he decided that he wanted to make sure that their funeral happened as swiftly as possible. Less time to brood over everything. With that in mind, he'd set the date and time of the funeral to coincide with their arrival at the airport. Perhaps rushed, but John couldn't stand the thought of returning to his house, alone, while his wife and daughter slept alone in a freezer, awaiting his convenience.

Of course, not everyone involved saw it the same way…

Rebecca's mother had made it to Savannah, no doubt fuelled by righteous indignation towards John as much as a desire to mourn her daughter (Karen and Rebecca's relationship could have been described as "strained" at the best of times). She was perched in the entrance hall, a plastic sympathetic look pasted to her pale face. Her husband, ostensibly Rebecca's step-father, was several steps behind her, looking wan.

John's own parents, on the other hand, moved to intercept him before Karen's vituperative tongue could strike. John refused to let himself break down now, in front of everyone. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed, instead nodding to everyone and thanking them for coming. His eyes swam with every word spoken by the small members of the mourning party, but he did not allow the dam to burst – not even when his best friend from the Academy came and planted one meaty paw on his shoulder, squeezing it firmly. John simply nodded his head, and told him ["We'll talk later, man?"] Brian understood, as he always did.

Stepping into the chapel proper, John took his seat, the surreal feeling of detachment coming back to him, as though he was watching someone else go through the motions that he'd been witness to before, but only as a military or police escort. Never as the grieving party.

He decided that he didn't care for the sensation at all, even as his mind wandered while the preacher spoke words that were meaningless to him. His eyes continually returned to the photos placed next to both caskets – closed, for obvious reasons – and his chest kept tightening up.

He didn't remember the rest of the service. Nor the trip to the nearby cemetery. Nor the hastily thrown-together remembrance held in a nearby tavern. He certainly didn't remember exchanging curses with his mother-in-law, nor being dragged away by Brian, cursing in English, Italian and French. He didn't remember how he got to the hotel room that had been rented for him, due to the possible risks associated with leaving him at home.

He didn't remember. But he did. He remembered everything. From first meeting Rebecca in the military, to holding Leah for the first time, her first steps, holding her bike for her as she learned to ride, the karate lessons that she took to like a fish swimming…

He remembered everything.

* * *

><p>"You will be okay, tonight?" asked his "handler" – Fabiano was his name, John remembered idly – and John couldn't help feeling a little bad. Despite being a Section 1 goon, he was at least putting effort into be a decent sort. At the funeral, he had maintained a respectful distance, not intruding into John's cresting grief, and deflecting the in-laws whilst Brian had dragged him away.<p>

John prided himself on not letting a contemptuous sneer cross his face. "I do not know when I will be 'okay' again." He allowed his features to soften for a moment. "But I do thank you for asking. Good night, sir."

Fabiano nodded shortly, then wordlessly left the hotel room, leaving John slumped in the office chair in front of the desk, his hand gripping a half-filled tumbler. Deep down inside, there was a voice castigating him, telling him that a) he was wallowing in depression for the sake of wallowing and b) he was every movie cliché possible at this point.

Despite the voice, he wandered out of his room, headed for the hotel's bar.

It didn't help that he knew the bartender, from having worked off-duty at the hotel as a security guard. She had known him as long as he'd had a daughter, and was as devastated about events as one could expect. After cautioning John that drowning his sorrows probably wasn't what he needed right now, she went ahead and poured him a tumbler anyway. It always took time with these cases, she knew.

After several minutes of silently stewing, John noted that the news was on. Idly wondering whether it was the liberal or conservative media putting their spin on things, he watched for a short time.

After a couple "major" stories from around the U.S., they mentioned in passing about some political fallout in Italy due to increased domestic terrorism, and how occasional right wing protests had escalated into outright rioting in some areas.

John stared at the screen, and snorted before killing his glass and setting it on the bar. ["What they don't tell you is that they don't care who they hurt in these things. They're maniacs. All of 'em, even the cops!"]

["Well, everyone knows that all cops are corrupt little donut-snatchers,"] rumbled a voice behind him. John spun rapidly on his barstool, then relaxed.

["Forgot today was Tuesday,"] he said. His buddy Brian was standing in front of him in uniform, working the shift that he'd asked him to cover while he was supposed to be on vacation. ["Forgot a lot of stuff."] He scoffed wryly. ["Wish I could forget more."] He rattled the ice in his tumbler for a minute, then sat it down on the bar.

For once, Brian didn't have a joke for the situation. Instead, he sat down next to John. ["Man, you know that I've always been there for you. You know that whatever you've got going on, you can talk to me about. It's not just about your girls… I can tell that. Where's your head at?"]

John snorted. ["Dude, I don't even know, any more. You know how much they meant to me… and yet, I've spent the last week since they got…"] he paused for a moment, collected himself, then continued. ["Since they got killed… I've gotten mixed up in some stuff. Big stuff. Stuff I've said I'm not going to talk about, but-"]

Brian held up his hand. ["If you can't talk about it, I get it. I've been there"] John knew Brian was referring to his own experiences in the Army, during NATO's time in the Balkans after the nuclear crisis there. ["I don't get how you got roped into something like that on vacation, but I get that you can't talk about it."] He stood for a second, brow furrowed in thought, making his already thick eyebrows appear to shut out his eyes.

John slumped in his stool. ["I mean… it's important stuff. Very important. And it's… related to what happened."] A pause, to slug back the surreptitiously-refilled whiskey that had been set on the bar. ["And it's good stuff. It's a job, and it's potentially fulfilling… but a touch sketchy, you know? Legal, but…"]

Brian held his hand up again. ["Man, the less I know about this the better for both of us, I think."] He paused for a second to ask for a Coke from the bartender. ["I guess you just gotta ask yourself… if it's related to what happened… could you live with yourself if you DIDN'T do something? Seems to me that you're in something like a position to DO something about it, whatever it is you're getting into."]

John looked at the drained tumbler, tinkling the ice cubes. ["Is it really… is it really that simple?"]

Brian chuckled darkly. ["Not everything needs a complicated solution, even if the situation is as fucked up as a football bat."]

John pondered for a second, then looked up. His face was still pale, the eyes still red-rimmed, but the set of them that he caught a glimpse of in the mirror was familiar. He'd seen the same flinty eyes set in the face of the man who brought him in to the SWA.

["You make a very valid point, brah. Reckon I'll think about that, on my flight back."]

Brian nodded. ["Reckon you will. You gonna be okay, man?"] At this last, he rested his bear paw of a hand on John's shoulder.

John stood. ["At some point, yeah. Thanks for the talk. I really needed it, after…"] He trailed off again, that familiar lump starting to work its way into his throat, before he could swallow it again.

Brian squeezed his shoulder before stepping back. ["Anytime, bro. You go get some sleep. Heading back there soon?"]

John nodded. ["Soon as I finish sorting out the affairs here. Can you do me a favor and keep an eye on the place til I can come back and figure out what I'm gonna do with it?"]

Brian rolled his eyes. ["As if you even had to ask. Just… watch your ass, man."]

John chuckled darkly, then settled his tab. One more exchanged handshake, and he headed up to his room, his resolve hardening with each step. He didn't know what was going to happen, back in Italy, but he would be damned if he was just going to sit back in the States and let someone else avenge his family.

Maybe he'd find something else to live for, one day, but vengeance would do for now.

* * *

><p>And so it went, after finishing the last of the paperwork associated with his family's affairs, as well as dealing with the Italian Consulate for a rapidly-processed work visa, John found himself back in Rome. After the initial dust settled, three weeks passed in a blur of training, sore muscles, rapidly-diminishing self-pity, and sleep (precious little of that last being savored.) In the midst of constant motion, John would occasionally encounter a cyborg in passing, but never did he meet up with any other members of the SRT, except to see them training either on the range or the shoothouse.<p>

That changed one day, when Amadeo finally commented that John's injuries had healed enough, and his conditioning had progressed sufficiently to permit him to join an intel team on an observation mission. "Your sole job," remarked the former San Marco as the pair walked from "is going to be to observe what everyone is doing. This is a ride-along only." His normally cheerful face was stony and serious – 'Game time,' thought John, somewhat irreverently. "The more of these that you get to go on, the better you'll get, and ultimately, you'll be able to run part of an op by yourself. But for now," he said, with some of his humor returning for a moment "you're on probation! How did you put it? [Double-Secret Probation?]"

John snorted, and nodded his head. "[Yup,] that is correct. So, who do I ride with?"

Amadeo didn't speak for a moment, as the pair approached one of the smaller out-buildings that bordered the large parking lot on the south side of the SWA compound. Once they arrived, he indicated a large man standing next to a somewhat battered-looking Lancia of some flavor or another – John was not enough of a car guy to know individual models, yet.

Besides, he was paying more attention to the man standing at the driver's side. This was the first time that John had met another member of the team in person, besides the three sergeants. The trooper, wearing an A.S. Roma football jersey and shorts, had his hair cropped close on his large head. He knew that he was being sized up at the same time, and was determined to make a good impression, so he decided to go for "casual and confident."

"Good morning," he said neutrally, keeping his posture upright and his demeanor calm. Naturally, this did nothing to help him.

The other team member, a truly massive man – taller than John's already well above-average dimensions, with shoulders and chest of a much broader girth – looked at him with about as much interest as a high schooler in a particularly dry lesson. "Got your sidearm?" he said, voice sounding as bored as his expression appeared. When John nodded, a small bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck, the trooper nodded shortly, making his ill-fitting jersey shift. "Get in, then."

Without any further commentary, the behemoth sat down in the Lancia, whose seat springs groaned in protest. Nonplussed, all John could think to do was to take the shotgun position in the car in silence. Upon his closing the door, the quiet man started the vehicle, and they drove out of the compound in a sedate manner.

After 5 minutes of awkward silence, the driver spoke up. "Fausto," he rumbled, eyes never leaving the road.

Taken aback again, John could only respond "I'm sorry?"

Sighing, the man repeated. "Fausto. My name is Fausto." A hard right turn, with a wailing of horns from an infuriated Fiat driver behind him that he disregarded entirely.

Nodding in comprehension, John answered in kind. "John Darme."

Fausto snorted. "We'll go with that bullshit, for now. But if you're fucking going to be on the goddamned team, you need to learn to open up. You can keep up that fucking 'secret agent' fake name bullshit if you want with everyone else, but when you're with us, you're gonna have to fucking fess up before any of us are gonna trust your ass completely."

John's face darkened, and he started to retort before he bit it back. This was his first glimpse inside the SRT proper, and he didn't want to screw it up. Too much was riding on him getting onto the team. "It is not a matter of being a secret agent…," he began, voice trailing off as he attempted to communicate his convoluted thought process on the matter. Made all the more difficult by the fact that he didn't completely understand it, himself – it merely 'felt right.'

Finally, he managed to get the phrasing right in his head, then spent a moment trying to figure out how to translate it in his still-shaky Italian. "It is not about secrets… it is about family." When Fausto raised an eyebrow, distorting his face comically, John persevered. "My real name… that belongs to my family. My dead family. Until I kill the bastardi who killed them… I do not feel that I can use my name."

They continued on in silence for a minute, as Rome's tourist and commercial districts faded away, and the pair began entering warehousing areas. Finally, Fausto gave a small chuckle. "Okay, I get it. I think you're being far too damned dramatic, but I fucking get it." He glimpsed at the rugged G-Shock on his wrist, and changed his tone. "Under your seat is a fucking notebook and pen. Go ahead and pull that shit out – we're almost to the target area. I'll watch, you write what I tell you – don't worry about spelling or handwriting, or shit like that." Almost below his breath, he added "There's no fuckin' way you'd be worse than Carlos, at least."

They pulled into a parking lot adjacent to a stack of warehouses. John's curiosity was piqued. "What is here?" he asked after several minutes of observation of absolutely nothing at all.

"Our last op in Taormina pulled some intel on an assload of shipments of explosives. They've been shuffling the shit through several fronts – one of which is this motherfucker right here in our back yard. We're here to observe the warehouse, see what we're dealing with, so Amadeo and Giorgio can come up with an op plan to take the bastards out."

Pushing past the initial flinch from the mention of Taormina, John thought for a moment. "Very… uhm… [ballsy] of them." At Fausto's blank look, John racked his brains for some rusty slang. "Ah… con _i_ _testicoli… coglioni_?" Fausto blinked, then chuckled.

"Yeah. No-one ever questioned their fuckin' guts, just their fuckin' brains. These guys don't seem to be dick-headed Padans, which is a good thing, and a bad thing." John raised an eyebrow, then grunted inquisitively when he realised that Fausto was focused on the warehouse, and didn't see him.

The trooper almost sighed slightly. "It's good because they're not fucking about with following Padania's mission of tearing apart Italy. Bad because we don't know who these assholes are, or what their fucking mission is. Once we figure that shit out, through the intel, then we'll have a fucking plan. Got it?"

John made an affirmative noise, feeling like a squeaky-new rookie again. Not a feeling he'd ever enjoyed.

With the impromptu briefing over with, Fausto focused his attention back to the warehouse again. John sat in silence for a long while, mulling his thoughts about the group that they could be dealing with. He forced himself to replay the combat in the piazza, remembering what the enemies had said, what the language sounded like. He didn't really have too solid of an idea; the only thing he could figure out was that it sounded vaguely Slavic, inasmuch as John could remember from the handful of times he'd heard Croatian and Hungarian spoken.

Their tactics had been decent, for an ambush – they'd obviously put thought into what to do with the secondary charges. But they'd sent only three operatives in. Two were very obviously sacrifices – not normal Mafiosi or even Padan tactics, as neither organization had much use for martyrs. Or rather, Padania tried to keep their martyrs from being sacrificed in anything less than a major operation, which they would immediately take credit for. The Taormina Piazza Duomo bombings, however, remained unclaimed and uncredited, thus far.

John mulled it over, his mind going around in circles, before he finally stopped, breathing an exasperated snort. Fausto heard him. "What, you've never worked a fuckin' stake-out before?"

Momentarily nonplussed, John was about to respond when Fausto tensed. John squinted, then saw what had seized the large man's interest: A non-descript white cargo van, tall-bodied and slab-sided rolled up to the warehouse, pressing the call button on the exterior speakerbox. After an unheard conversation, one of the rollup doors shot up. Fausto snatched his digital camera, almost comically tiny in his huge meaty hands, and started taking pictures. John followed suit, and began scribbling notes on what he saw: "3-tr rax, other vans, lots o OD, camo? X4 w/m boxes (rfl? + ammo) RPGS! (with three underlines)" before the roll-up closed with a rush.

Fausto's voice was a low rumble. "Am I on drugs, or did I just see fucking artillery in that van?"

John nodded. "It must be some good stuff, because I saw it too. Several boxes that looked like rifle boxes, LOTS of ammo boxes, and definitely several crates of RPG ammo."

Fausto sighed. "I was afraid of that. I've gotta call this shit in – Giorgio's gonna be pissed." John looked quizzical for a moment, and Fausto explained as he dialed. "We're gonna have to call in a fratello to work this. Giorgio don't like working with the girls. I don't either, but for different reasons. Kids should be able to be kids, you know? Giorgio just don't like playing second violin to something he thinks is just a fucking showpiece."

After Giorgio picked up, Fausto outlined the situation. John could hear a moment of some truly vile cursing on the other end of the phone, then something that sounded like "-gotta move now?"

Fausto grimaced. "Yeah – from what little we saw, it looks like they're getting ready to scatter from this spot. If we're gonna get anything from this location, we've gotta move now, and you said today that the team's all over the place."

A few more sentences exchanged, then Fausto hung up the phone. "From the vans we saw inside, it looks like they're breaking down whatever it was they were working on here. If we don't take em soon, it's not going to happen. That means a fratello – whichever one's on alert status right now. They can respond in 20 minutes or less."

John nodded. "Like a fighter on a carrier, ready to launch to intercept attackers."

Fausto raised an eyebrow. "Never thought of it like that. Anyways, once Giorgio calls them in, they're probably going to call us here. He's gonna round up as many of the squad as are in Rome right now, not assigned to any shit, and we're going to function as backup. I've got a spare vest in the trunk for you – all your shit's back at the compound, right?" John looked sheepish. "Well, it's your first op – you didn't know. Just fucking learn from it and move on, clear?"

John nodded.

Fausto chuckled darkly. "Just wait, new fish. You're gonna see some good shit here in a minute. If we're fucking lucky, the fratello will leave us something to do."

John raised an eyebrow. "I saw one before… are they all so good?"

"Which one did you see?" Fausto raised the binoculars to his eyes again.

"Uhm… it was the one in the schoolgirl outfit… Henrietta! That was her name." John, usually terrible with names, was happy to recall that fact.

Fausto chuckled again. "Henrietta's only middling. Depending on who's on, you might not even have a fucking chance to pull out your pistol."

* * *

><p>It was a tense 20 minutes spent watching the group, quietly watching the warehouse, hoping and praying that the rats wouldn't cut and run before they could be snatched up. John couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten so exhausted watching nothing happen before. It was with a great sigh of relief that the pair heard a well-tuned engine, shortly before it propelled a dark-colored station wagon (a random thought in John's mind reminded him that they called them "estates" in Europe) around the far corner in the stack of warehouses. As it pulled up short and halted, Fausto dialed his phone again. After a short and virulent conversation, he stabbed the hangup button, then paused for a moment.<p>

Fausto let out a short sigh, then shook his head. "Okay, recluta, no bullshit: where are you at? I need to fucking know if your head's in this game for real, because if it's not, I'm not getting fucking waxed because you're fucked up."

John gave him a quizzical look, then his eyes widened. "Giorgio… the others, they are… not coming?"

Fausto shook his head. "They're hauling ass to get here, but the nearest pair is still 15 minutes out. Some sort of fucking wreck in the middle of traffic's got il Centro snarled up like a kitten with yarn. Ain't nobody getting here quicker, short of a helicopter."

He popped his door open then stepped to his trunk, cracking it open and starting to pull out tactical gear. "So, no bullshit: where are you at?"

John turned to reach for the door latch, and was surprised to find his hand shaking. 10 years as a patrol officer, riot officer, training officer, on top of 4 years as a Marine deployed to a combat zone twice… his hands hadn't shaken anything nearly like this.

He made himself grab the door handle anyway. Climbing out, he stepped back, and reached for the spare vest that Fausto had told him about. "I am here. I am ready. What do you have for me?" He indicated the long-gun case that was in the trunk. "I am thinking that my friend here," he patted his paddle holster, containing his issued Beretta "may not be enough for this group."

Fausto shook his head, then pointed his finger at where the sedan had parked. John looked up and saw where a short, trenchcoated figure with cornsilk-blonde hair in twin ponytails was standing up from her own gear bag. John couldn't suppress an involuntary shudder as he recognized Triela. It was one thing to know intellectually that one of the fratelli was coming out to work the warehouse. It was another thing entirely to see what was, to his eyes, a young, thin teenager wielding an antiquated shotgun with a professionalism that any of his former comrades would have envied.

She turned, her trenchcoat flaring as she began to move along the 6-foot cinderblock wall towards where the pair had parked. As Fausto began walking towards her quickly, he sealed his tactical vest, and indicated to John to do the same. "Like I told you, we're the fucking backup. Triela? She's the best of them. No fucking question."

"Hello Fausto," Triela said cheerily, her melodic voice making John's ears twitch as he again noted how it sounded subtly different from the other Italian he'd been hearing from the others – Fausto excepted. "What have you got for me today?"

"Good afternoon Miss Triela," Fausto said, and John blinked at the noticeably different tone. "There's at least four of them in there, possibly more. They've definitely got heavy artillery – we saw a couple crates of RPGs, and it looked like they had several different flavors of rifles in there too." He stopped, then indicated John to come forward. When John started, he indicated John's notepad. John nodded, then began to sketch.

"I did not see a lot. There are several three-tiered racks, with several vans parked inside. There are many boxes, green and camouflaged that can be used as cover, but maybe have ammunition inside?" Triela nodded, showing him that she was following. "There was maybe an office? I could not see more, but the warehouse is not so big, so…" his voice trailed off. Triela gave a small smile.

"It's okay, Mr. Darme. I understand that there may be more men in there. I'll be careful."

For a moment, John was puzzled. Fausto shot him in the ribs with his elbow. "She might have done this before – you don't have to look so worried."

"Indeed," rumbled a voice from behind Triela. John nodded to Hilshire as he approached. "Triela is a professional – these do not appear to be much of a threat, the hardware notwithstanding." He turned to her, and she looked up at his chiseled, expressionless face. "That said, do exercise some care please. I'd like to get at least one of them alive for questioning, if possible."

Triela nodded, then examined the shells on the stock of her M1897 Winchester trench gun. She slid out several red-hulled shells, reached into her trenchcoat pockets, and withdrew an equal number of white-hulled shells. John noted them, and spoke up. "I don't know the Italian, but… [super socks?]"

Triela nodded. "Less-lethal impact rounds, yes. Just in case." With that, she turned, examined the warehouse for a moment, noted the location of the fire doors on the sides with a quick walk in the front, her shotgun slung under her trenchcoat.

Then, with a sudden explosion of movement, she rocketed towards the walk-up door. Holding her shotgun with one arm, she pointed it at the door lock, fired once, shattering the handle with a breaching round. Racking the slide, she kicked the door in, the force of her artificial muscles sufficient to rip it against the direction of the hinges, and punch it inwards. And then she was in the warehouse. Several booms from the M1897, some shouts that became screams, a few pistol shots, and then…

Hilshire held his hand to his earpiece. "Copy that." He nodded his head to the two (well, one and a half) SRT operators. "We're good, gentlemen." He strode quickly towards the warehouse. After a moment's shocked hesitation, John followed. Fausto chuckled.

"Told you she was the best." John could only nod as the pair ascended the steps and entered the warehouse, the smell of cordite mingling with the familiar smells of dust, wood, exhaust and entropy that were inherent in almost any warehouse environment. As he looked around, he noted the surprising lack of damage to the environment. Only one of the vans showed any damage – a pair of small-caliber holes in the side panels of a Ford Transit that had been sitting next to a couch that faced a television.

As he continued to survey the scene, John could almost see the action as it had happened-

Jump through the breached door. Foot sweep the first guy, cave in his skull on the way down with the butt stock. Fire one round – second guy sitting on the couch turns into pink mist. Reload with less-lethal whilst dodging the surprised shots from the two coming out of the office, finish them off with well-aimed beanbag rounds to the chest, and flex-cuff them rapidly before they can get their breaths back – assuming they would want to breathe with their ribs broken.

- and could only whistle, impressed. Triela stood next to her two captives,

who were still gaping and gasping like landed fish. John sketched a salute, and Triela rewarded him with a toothy grin that dimpled her cheeks, making his stomach lurch as he was again caught out by how young she looked.

This was going to take some getting used to.

He looked around again, and looked down at an overturned crate where several plastic cups sat next to a large glass bottle. Picking it up, he looked at the label. "Raki… Albanian brandy?" He turned the bottle around, and noted the red flag with the double-headed eagle on the other side. "Yes, Albanian."

Fausto groaned. "I fucking HATE Albanians!"

"Fausto Martinello!" Triela's voice cracked. Hilshire pointedly did not hear anything that he might be required to enforce as a handler. Fausto looked abashed. "Sorry, Miss Triela."

* * *

><p>By the time the other responding troopers arrived (including a very sour-faced Giorgio), the scene was properly secured. After Triela, Hilshire, Fausto and John did a complete second sweep of the building, Fausto wordlessly handed John a camera and sketchpad. Sighing mentally, John set about recording the scene forensically. 'Nothing like being the low man on the totem pole,' he thought. 'Again.'<p>

Once everything was documented, the rest of the troopers helped gather everything. Here, John's lack of Italian proficiency came to his rescue – after all, he couldn't very well be expected to properly document and catalogue the items if he couldn't write down what they were, could he?

Unfortunately, this just meant that he was stuck schlepping. Once the scene was cleared of intel, John had gathered it, and hefted it into a Mercedes-Benz Sprinter van that had carried two troopers (one shortish, swarthy, with slicked-back black hair, the other as thoroughly average-looking a man as John had ever seen) to the warehouse. John glanced back at the bay door, to where one of the corpses lay. The troopers had just finished photographing visible tattoos, and were walking out. He looked for Fausto, then asked "We just leave the dead here?"

Fausto nodded. "Once we've got the shit that we need, we leave the shitheads here for the cleanup crew. There's a group of some fucking fantastic professionals who follow behind us, making sure that there's no fucking evidence for the dumbass local cops to trip over, in between counting their bribes." John nodded, suppressing a wince at the mention of police corruption. "We don't ask their names, they don't say shit to us. Lieutenant Croce, Ferro, and of course Giorgio can call 'em out."

John nodded thoughtfully. "It keeps it simple. Limits contact. Understood." He handed Fausto his sketchbook for approval. After examining his sketches of the scene, Fausto nodded shortly, and gave a low grunt.

"Not bad, new fish. Not bad at all. Looks like you might have learned some shit while you were in the States. Ever work Forensics?"

John shook his head. "Only patrol. Some riot experience – small, not like you have here."

Fausto raised his eyebrows. "No shit? Definitely not bad for not having any experience with sketching a scene, then. Okay… we done shifting the shit out of there?"

John nodded, indicating where the van's rear doors had been just closed, and the two SRT troopers were mounting up. Fausto jerked his head towards his car. "Time for us to get the fuck out of here, then." He raised his voice slightly, and waved a hand. "Thanks for your help, Miss Triela! I owe you a slice of tira misu!"

Triela waved cheerily, sticking out her tongue. "I think you've got me confused with Henrietta, but I'll take dessert, any day!" Fausto stuck his tongue out in return, then headed to his car, John trotting behind bemusedly.

"Fausto," called Giorgio. The tall man halted, then turned to head back to where the SRT commander stood. "G'wan to the car. Gotta talk to the capo."

John nodded, and headed to the car, keeping an eye on the wing mirror's reflection of the pair talking. It was a short conversation, with Fausto's broad, bluff face keeping a genial expression, and Giorgio's looking rather sour. _Sort of how it always looks, _John mused idly. Giorgio regarded John levelly for a moment, said something else to Fausto, who looked back at John with a half-smile, and nodded. Giorgio then left to hop into his own car and drive off. Fausto came back to his battered Lancia.

"What was that?" asked John.

Fausto gave him a little grin. "Guess who gets to write the fucking report from this? Here's a hint: it ain't fucking me!"

John looked horrified. "I can barely SPEAK Italian, and you want me to write it?"

Fausto waved a dismissive hand as the pair put the last of their gear in the car, then climbed into the passenger compartment. "It's nothing to shit yourself about. I'll be working with your ass to make sure you've got your shit right. Just do your best – ain't nobody gonna give you shit for it."

As he started the car and slapped it into gear, he amended with a dry chuckle "Much."

* * *

><p>Sitting behind a table in the refectory, John scratched his head in frustration, glaring at the mostly-untranslated Word document on the screen in front of him. Normally, the place was swimming with personnel, people he could maybe ask for help with his stilted language skills. Now, however, he seemed to have caught it at a dead time. Even the kitchen staff were nowhere to be seen, although the clatter of pots and pans in the rear showed that they were still in evidence… John didn't want to disturb them, in any case. Some throwback part of his brain refused to beg for help on something that a grade school child could...<p>

Snapping his head up at the sound of the doors opening, John watched as a group of cyborgs walked in. They looked older, which probably made them second generation builds, some that he hadn't met before... Idly, John watched them, marveling at how they appeared to be nothing other than a group of teenage girls, gossiping about events at school. If he, knowing what they were underneath the skin, was having trouble distinguishing them from their more mundane counterparts, then he could only imagine how much of an asset they would be on a street detail.

As they perused the salad bar, nattering back and forth, the lithe redhead blushed at something that the sullen blonde with the peek-a-bangs had said, and retorted hotly. Watching the group break into a fit of chuckling at the redhead's discomfiture, John continued to marvel at them, before returning distractedly to his report. Hearing the language was at least putting him in a better frame of mind to try his translation again.

"Uh… sir," piped up a voice, confused and hesitant from over his shoulder, and he whirled, startled. Behind him stood one of the group that had been at the salad bar – the medium-height brunette with the distinctive freckles. She pointed at the screen with her free hand. "You've got that sentence all backwards."

Blushing slightly, John glanced back, and saw where his grammar had tripped himself up. "Ah… thank you, young lady."

"Freccia," responded the cyborg with a smile. Some idle part of John's mind mis-parsed what she had said.

"They call you 'Freckles'?" he asked, confused. "That's a bit rude, isn't it?"

Nonplussed, Freccia's face scrunched up in confusion. "Eh, what?!"

Blushing harder, John waved a hand. "Never mind, disregard." Turning back to his report, he clamped down on his frustration and said "Thank you again, Freccia. As you can see, I have many issues here."

Setting her tray on the table, and looking at his screen, the teen nodded. "Certainly looks that way… why is half of it in English?" Taking another look at John, her eyes widened. "Oh! You're the new American, aren't you?"

John nodded. "And I am trying to work on my Italian. Or rather, I am assigned this, and I am learning that my Italian has far to go."

"Maybe you would like a hand?" she asked, pulling out a chair next to John and sitting down, picking at her salad as she read over the screen.

"That would be great, thanks!" John said, trying not to let the relief he was feeling wash over his face completely.

Both of them were pointedly ignoring the wolf whistles and catcalls coming from the other three cyborgs that had walked in with Freccia.

Giorgio sat in his shared office space, scowling over the glowing screen in front of him. Occasionally, his fingers would stab out at a handful of keys, then steeple under his chin. Amadeo stood behind him, looking over his shoulder. "Not… horrible, I suppose," Giorgio allowed. "He at least uses the proper terms, even if the grammar comes off a little stilted. Definitely serviceable, at any rate."

Amadeo nodded in agreement. "Fausto said that his language skills onscene were clear enough, as well. We'll have to see how he does in a tactical situation, but that's just a matter of getting him through a shoothouse a couple times."

Giorgio tapped his index fingers together thoughtfully. "We could probably run one on Thursday… pass the word to the guys."

"As for tomorrow… I think it's time to finally fill the roster officially."

* * *

><p>John sat in the training room, listening absently to the conversations that flowed around him, flipping through what appeared to be the Italian version of 'Soldier of Fortune.' His limited Italian comprehension was expanding every day – full-immersion learning tended to have that effect on a person. As was the custom of military personnel throughout the world, throughout history, the language was flavored heavily with slang and obscenity, in a variety of Italian dialects. Some, John recognized from his time in Sicily. Most were, however, completely new and foreign, and he found the exercise in attempting to decipher it fascinating. Especially when troopers like Fausto proved to have such an impressive command of the language, with every third word being a curse, and rarely repeating himself.<p>

At first, he had sat attentively in the room – which was laid out like a classroom, scattered with various training materials and magazines – and waited for something to happen. After he'd been told to report there in an abrupt, and rather curt, phone call from Nihad, he'd tried to do his best to present a good showing as a new trooper.

That had lasted a couple hours, with others coming and going around him, and generally having a laid-back morning. No instructions had been passed, no orders given, and everyone seemed to be catching up on various sports news. Which was insanely boring to him. Figuring he was being tested, somehow, he had picked up a stack of training manuals and magazines, and gone about trying to improve his knowledge base.

After several minutes of listening, John noted that the conversations had quieted down somewhat, and he looked up from the article on door breaching tactics to see Giorgio leaning over his table.

"Guys," he began, speaking in a medium tone, directed at no one in particular. At least, not obviously so. "I've always wondered - what is it about some people who feel as though they simply HAVE to stick around, long after their welcome is worn out?" A couple snickers from around the room - they'd caught onto the thread, all right. Not as many as John had expected, however. Interesting.

"I hope you realize just how irregular and tenuous your presence here is," he growled gruffly. John's face hardened as the trooper continued. "The fratelli might be a United Nations Expeditionary Force, but the SRT has always been Italian, first and foremost. There's more than a few of us who feel that we don't need some Yankee coming here, poking your nose around, like Yankees always do."

'Here it comes,' John thought resignedly. The showdown that had been put off for a couple of weeks was going to happen right after breakfast, of course. 'This is not going to be pleasant.'

Making an effort not to let the tension seizing his body show on his face, he responded calmly. "If you feel that way, caporalmaggiore capo, we can always discuss it outside. If you feel you can make your point quickly." John rolled his head around, cracking his vertebrae. "Otherwise, I have paperwork to finish."

Giorgio's eyebrows rose up to his cropped hairline. "The coglioni on this one!" he said with a semi-impressed chuckle. He jerked his head towards the door leading to the outside, where the shoothouses lay. "Let's go, recluta."

Sighing, John marked his place in his book and sat his glasses on top of it. Yep, this was going to hurt.

* * *

><p>Limping up the stairwell to his room, John leaned against the wall to support himself. His ribs felt a little spongy, and were most definitely tender. Judging from the way he could barely see, his eyes were probably both blackened and swollen. His thighs ached from repeated strikes, his stomach ached from blows received both standing and on the ground; all things considered, he'd rather have received a Swedish massage.<p>

It wasn't so much that he'd been completely outclassed by the veteran trooper - he knew going into this that his long-forgotten skills in Marine Corps Martial Arts were not going to do him much good, rusty as they were. It was all he could do to block blows and avoid probing attacks for the first thirty seconds or so. Once Giorgio had landed the first punch directly into his solar plexus that he'd been unable to tense his core for, things had gone swiftly downhill.

But he had never given the bastard the satisfaction of an easy end. Every time he went down, he forced himself to stand up. Every sweep, every stun, every strike to nerve clusters that resulted in white-hot starbursts of agony - all had been borne, withstood, and fought against. Each time, he had dragged himself from the loose dirt, scuffed the blood and sweat from his eyes, and glared at Giorgio, whose expression had changed from one form of satisfaction to another as the beatdown had continued.

Ultimately, it had been Amadeo who called a halt to it. Giorgio had walked away, to raucous applause from his squadmembers. Amadeo had helped John up when it became clear that the American was having trouble getting his legs steady.

As he reached into his pocket for his keys, he noted that his right middle finger was bent at an awkward angle. Grimacing in frustration and anticipation, he reached over, set his teeth, and gave a yank. With a sharp POP, the dislocation was corrected with a sunflare of pain, followed by a rush of warmth that was simultaneously soothing and agonizing. He couldn't stop a whimper from escaping as he retrieved his keys from where they had fallen, then opened his door.

As he staggered inside, closing the door behind him, he absently noted the presence of a piece of paper just inside his room. He blinked for a moment, before deciding that his mind wasn't going to be happy until he found out what was on it. His body protested, but agreed to compromise by collapsing against the wood paneling in the room.

Catching his breath, he turned the paper over. On it were five words, written in Giorgio's crisp, precise handwriting:

"Benvenuti a bordo, pesci nuovi."

Blinking, John sat there for several moments, before deciding that his ribs hurt too much to laugh ironically. "Welcome aboard, new fish," he muttered, the pain in his voice unable to mask the satisfaction contained there, as well.

Time to start getting some of his own back.

* * *

><p>PHEW! It has been a LONG struggle, writing this… I have had many ups and downs in my life since starting this one…. hell, 3 years ago, almost. Not the least of which was 2 miscarriages. If you've never experienced such a thing… trust me, you're blessed.<p>

However, so much support from the AWESOME community at Cyborg Central has helped keep me motivated as I slowly re-assembled myself, and grew back to fill the cracks in my life again.

Writing this has become something akin to therapy – a means to find my way back to myself again. And thanks for y'all's patience as I've meandered back on to the path.

I'm not back, but I'm definitely on my way there. Thanks again.


End file.
